THE  FIRST  VIOLIN 


BY 


HENRY  HOLT&CO.  PUBLISHED 
New  York 


m 


THE  LEISURE  HOUR  SERIES. 

A  collection  of  works  whose  character  is  light  and  • 
taining,  though  not  trivial.      While  »r  the 

pocket  or  the  satchel,  they  are  not,  either  in  contents  - 
pearance,  unworthy  of  a  place  on  the  library  shelves.      16ino, 

cloth.  PRICE   REDUCED   TO  $1.00   PER  VOLUME. 

«*•  SPECIAL,  NOTICE-HORARY  BINDIXft.    A  wr  of  the  work* 
any  author  whose  name  is  preceded  by  an  asterisk  (*>,  ma 
«J  le,  extra  cloth.  gilt  back,  without  extra  charge.     f>inrjlt 

VOL  UMES    PUBLISHED. 

ABOUT,  E 

THE  MAK  WITH  THE  BBO- 

KEN  EAB. 

THE  NOTAKY'S  NOSK. 
ALCESTIS.    A  Mutical 

•ALEXANDER.   Mrs. 

THE  WOOING  O'T. 
WHICH  SHALL  IT  BE? 
RALPH  WILTON'S  WEIRD. 
HER  DEAREST 
HERITAGE  OF  LANUDALK. 


•AUERBACH.  B 

THE    VILLA   ON    THE 

RHINE.  2  vote,  w.  Portr. 
BLACK   FOREST  VILLAGE 

THE  LITTLE  BAREFOOT. 
H  is  THE  SNOW. 

•AS  TALES. 
K  HEIGHTS.     3  vols. 
THE  CONVICTS. 
LORLEY  A1.'I>  P.EINHABD. 

SNT. 

fiax. 
WALDI 
BJORNSON.  B 

R-MAIDKH. 
BUTT.  B.  M. 

•LLY. 

CADELL    Mrs    H.  M. 

• 
CALVERLEY.  C.  S. 

CHERBULIEZ.  V. 
RE- 

nu. 

CORKRAN.  ALICE. 
CRAVEN,  Mme.  A. 
DROZ.  GUSTAVE. 

ERSKINE.  Mrs.  T. 


FOTHERGILL,  JES 
SIE. 

THE  I  : 
FREYTAG,  G. 

INGO. 


GROHMAN.  W.A    B. 

GADDINGS  WITH  A  PIUMI 

TIVI 

GIFT.  THEO. 

PRETTY  Miss  BELLEW. 

LLICE. 

GOETHE,  J.  W.  Von. 

I  IKS. 

GRIFFITHS,  Arthur 

LOLA :    A  T 

.  ER. 
•HARDY.  THOMAS 

UNDER  THE  GREENWOOD 

TREE. 

A  PATB  OF  BLUE    ; 
DESPERATE   - 
FAR  FROM  THE  MADDING 

CRO'-i 

HAND  OF  ETHELBEP.TA. 
HEINE.  HEINRICH. 

JENKIN,  Mrs.  C. 
•  BREAKS — PAYS. 
SKIRMISH 

.HE  OF  TO-DAY. 
MADAME  DE  BEACPBB. 

JrPITER'S    PAI'GK  : 

WITHIN  AN 
JOHNSON.  Rossiter 

I'LAv  : 
LAFFAN,  MAY. 

THE  i' 
MAJENDIE,Lady  M. 

MAXWELL.  CECIL. 

>RY      OF      Tii 

MOLES  WORTH, Mrs 

H  ATE 

OLIPHANT.  Mrs. 

WHITI-: 
PALGRAVE.  W^.  G. 

HERMANN  AGHA. 
PARR.  LOUISA. 

HERO   CARTHEW. 


PLAYS      FOR     PRI- 

VATE    ACTING. 
POYNTER.  E    F. 

MY  LrrrLE  LADY. 

.IA. 

RICHARDSON.  S. 

. 

*RICHTER.  J.  P.  F. 

THOBZI 
Pit. 

CAMPANEB  THAI* 
TITA  - 

ROBERTS.  Mias 

SCHMID    H. 
THE  HAB> 
SLIP  in  the  FENS,  A. 

SMITH,  H.  and  J. 

SPIELHAGEN.  F. 

WHAT    THE    SWALLOW 

THACKERAY. W   M 
*TURGENIEFF.  I 

LIZA. 

EVE. 

:.KAB. 
TYTLER.  C.  C.  F. 

ITII. 

VERS  DE  SOCIETE 
VILLARI    LINDA. 

WALFORD.  L    B 

PAULI 
•WINTHROP.THEO 


nien  have  ii"  HOLT  &  Go. 

-)  receipt  of  the  advertised  pnct. 
25  Bon-;  8t  .   .v    > 


•  "••W* 

lift?  V 


CYCLOPEDIA 


Principally  written  or  revised  by  the  following  authorities: 


Calvert  Vaux,  Architect  of  the  Central  Park,  and  Thomas  Wisedell,  Archi- 
tect:  Locating,  Building,  and  Repairing.  Lewis  Leeds,  Sanitary  Engineer: 
Warming  and  Ventilation.  Col.  George  L.  Waring,  of  Ogden  Farm  :  Drainage. 


Mark's  Place,  New  York,  and  Chef  de  Cuisine,  Newport :  Cooking  and  Domestic 
Management.  Austin  Flint,  Jr.,  M.D.,  Professor  in  Believue  Medical  College: 
Dietetics  and  Alcoholic  Beverages.  Abraham  Jacobi,  M.D.,  Professor  in  the  Col- 
lege of  Physicians  and  Surgeons:  Diseases  and  Hygiene  of  Children.  William  T. 
Lusk,  M.D.,  Professor  in  Bellevue  Medical  College  Jate  Jpditor  of  the^  New  ^ork 

Wa 

Mil 

Professor  in  the  Yale  Law  School  T  Business  Forms  and  Legal  Rules. 
One  Vol.  870,  652  pages,  with  a  full  Index,  and  over  300  Illustrations. 

THE  HOUSE  is  elaborately  treated,  information  being  given,  with  abundant 
illustrations,  upon  the  selection  of  a  site,  planning  building  in  either  stone,  brick,  or 
wood,  draining,  warming,  ventilating,  and  finishing  in  taste. 

FURNITURE. — Practical  information  is  given  touching  every  article  in  use 
from  garret  to  cellar,  with  the  cost  of  all  those  of  average  excellence ;  lists  with 
prices,  for  furnishing  three  houses  of  different  sizes  and  degrees  of  elegance  ;  and  a 
separate  article  on  DECOKATION.  The  article  is  copiously  illustrated  from  examples 
iu  the  revived  constructive  style. 

REARING  OF  THE  FAMILY.— The  advice  begins  at  the  Birth  of  the 
Infant  and  follows  it  through  the  disorders  of  childhood  and  puberty,  and  th« 
diseases  and  accidents  of  life. 

THE  MEDICAL  ARTICLES  consume  a  comprehensive  guide  in  the 
domestic  treatment  of  disease  and  accident.  Courses  of  treatment  safe  for  un- 
professional persons  to  use,  are  indicated,  and  no  others.  Bandaging  and  treating 
fractures  and  dislocations  are  described  and  illustrated.  Much  attention  is  given 
to  Hygiene. 

FOOD  is  treated  of  in  its  physiological  aspects,  and  every  important  process 
of  cooking  is  lucidly  explained. 

COOKING  RECEIPTS.— The  collection  is  believed  to  be  supen 
hitherto  made,  including  several  thousand  collected  from  private  sourc^ 
which  have  stood  the  test  of  use. 

HOUSEHOLD  MANAGEMENT.— Servants,  Laundry-Work,  Cleaning. 
Destruction  of  Vermin,  Serving  the  Different  Meals,  etc.,  etc. 

DRESS. — A  description  is  given  of  fabrics  commonly  used,  a: 
Cutting  and  Fitting,  with  full  illustrations,  and  directions  for  making 
articles  of  dress.     To  this  is  added  information  concerning  the  Toilet. 

DOMESTIC  ANIMALS.— Directions  for  selecting,  keeping,  and  ' 
the  diseases  of  HORSES,  COWS,  and  POULTRY  are  given  ;  and  ex 
of  the  DAIRY,  from  milking  of  the  cow  to  making  butter  and  cheese,  is  des-  ; 
The  article  on  HK.E-KKKP1NG  will  probably  prove  valuable  to  ninny. 

GARDENING  and  FLORICULTURE  aie  explained.     No  attempt  is 
made  to  teach  how  to  make  money  by  farming,  but  the  principal  plants  raised  for 
•>T  ornament  in  this  country  are  described,  and  the  best  method  of  growing, 
whether  indoors  or  out,  is  given. 

•WEIGHTS  and  MEASURES  (including  the  METRIC  SYSTEM)  are  elabor 
ately  treated. 

BUSINESS  FORMS  arc  given,  and  the  LAW  bearing  on  them,  as  well  as 
the  laws  (so  far  as  it  is  safe  for  laymen  to  rely  upon  them)  affecting  the  ore 
lions  of  life.  

Prices  and  Styles  of   #/W/uA'.-— Extra  Cloth,  §5.00 :   Enameled    C 

,  Leather,  §6.50;  Half  Morocco,  $7.50. 
Where  there  are  no  books-tore.-,  copies  will  be  sent,  carnage  prep-iX 

HENRY  HOLT  &  CO.,  25  Bond  Street,  New  York. 


i  rrrTrrmmfi  t 


::       •        ;>.:        ,     i  tJ.« 


#: 


.  C 


MUSICAL   NOVELS. 

( 'Leisure- Hour  Series.) 


ALCESTIS. 

"We  take  leave  of  this  pretty,  graceful,  and  original 
book  with  a  regret  such  as  we  rarely  feel  in  laying  down 
a  novel,  that  there  had  not  been  another  volume  to 
it.  .  .  ." — London  Spectator. 

GIANNETTO.     By  LADY  MARGARET 
MAJENDIE. 

"  No  one  can  lay  down  the  book  without  reading  to 
the  end,  nor  fail  to  be  impressed  by  the  end  when  it 
comes.  .  .  .  This  tale  is  full  of  power  and  promise." 
— London  Spectator. 


LEISURE    HOUR    SERIES.— No.    101. 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN 


A    NOVEL 


JESSIE    FOTHERGILL 


NEW  YORK 
HENRY   HOLT  AND    COMPANY 

1878 


COPYRIGHT 
BY  HENRY  HOLT  &  Co., 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN 


BOOK  I. 

RES  ANGUSTA  DOMI. 


CHAPTER  I. 

MISS    HALLAM. 

'  '  "WONDERFUL  weather  for  April ! "  Yes,  it  cer- 
y  V  tainly  was  wonderful.  I  fully  agreed  with  the 
sentiment  expressed  at  different  periods  of  the  day  by 
different  members  of  my  family;  but  I  did  not  follow 
their  example  and  seek  enjoyment  out  of  doors — pleasure 
in  that  balmy  spring  air.  Trouble — the  first  trouble  of 
my  life — had  laid  her  hand  heavily  upon  me.  The  world 
felt  disjointed  and  all  upside  down ;  I  very  helpless  and 
lonely  in  it.  I  had  two  sisters,  I  had  a  father  and  a 
mother;  but  none  the  less  was  I  unable  to  share  my 
grief  with  any  one  of  them ;  nay,  it  had  been  an  absolute 
relief  to  me  when  first  one  and  then  another  of  them  had 
left  the  house,  on  business  or  pleasure  intent,  and  I,  after 
watching  my  father  go  down  the  garden-walk,  and  seeing 
the  gate  close  after  him,  knew  that,  save  for  Jane,  our 
domestic,  who  was  caroling  lustily  to  herself  in  the 
kitchen  regions,  I  was  alone  in  the  house. 


2  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

I  was  in  the  drawing-room.  Once  secure  of  solitude, 
I  put  down  the  sewing  with  which  I  had  been  pretending 
to  employ  myself,  and  went  to  the  window — a  pleasant, 
sunny  bay.  In  that  window  stood  a  small  work-table, 
with  a  flower-pot  upon  it  containing  a  lilac  primula.  I 
remember  it  distinctly  to  this  day,  and  I  am  likely  to 
carry  the  recollection  with  me  so  long  as  I  live.  I  leaned 
my  elbows  upon  this  table,  and  gazed  across  the  fields, 
green  with  spring  grass,  tenderly  lighted  by  an  April  sun, 
to  where  the  river — the  Skern — shone  with  a  pleasant, 
homely,  silvery  glitter,  twining  through  the  smiling  mead- 
ows till  he  bent  round  the  solemn  overhanging  cliff 
crowned  with  mournful  firs,  which  went  by  the  name 
of  the  Rifted  or  Riven  Scaur. 

In  some  such  delightful  mead  might  the  white-armed 
Nausicaa  have  tossed  her  cowslip  balls  amongst  the  other 
maids ;  perhaps  by  some  such  river  might  Persephone 
have  paused  to  gather  the  daffodil — "  the  fateful  flower 
beside  the  rill."  Light  clouds  flitted  across  the  sky,  a 
waft  of  wind  danced  in  at  the  open  window,  ruffling  my 
hair  mockingly,  and  bearing  with  it  the  deep  sound  of  a 
church-clock  striking  four. 

As  if  the  striking  of  the  hour  had  been  a  signal  for  the 
breaking  of  a  spell,  the  silence  that  had  prevailed  came 
to  an  end.  Wheels  came  rolling  along  the  road  up  to 
the  door,  which,  however,  was  at  the  other  side  of  the 
house.  "A  visitor  for  my  father,  no  doubt,"  I  thought 
indifferently ;  "  and  he  has  gone  out  to  read  the  funeral 
service  for  a  dead  parishioner.  How  strange !  I  wonder 
how  clergymen  and  doctors  can  ever  get  accustomed  to 
the  grim  contrasts  amidst  which  they  live!  " 

I  suffered  my  thoughts  to  wander  off  in  some  such 
track  as  this,  but  they  were  all  through  dominated  by  a 
heavy  sense  of  oppression — the  threatening  hand  of  a 
calamity  which  I  feared  was  about  to  overtake  me,  and  I 
had  again  forgotten  the  outside  world. 

The  door  was  opened.  Jane  held  it  open  and  said 
nothing  (a  trifling  habit  of  hers,  which  used  to  cause  me 
much  annoyance),  and  a  tall  woman  walked  slowly  into 
the  room.  I  rose  and  looked  earnestly  at  her,  surprised 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  3 

and  somewhat  nervous  when  I  saw  who  she  was — Miss 
Hallam,  of  Hallam  Grange,  our  near  neighbor,  but  a 
great  stranger  to  us  nevertheless,  so  far,  that  is,  as  per- 
sonal intercourse  went. 

"  Your  servant  told  me  that  every  one  was  out  except 
Miss  May,"  she  remarked  in  a  harsh,  decided  voice,  as 
she  looked  not  so  much  at  me  as  towards  me,  and  I 
perceived  that  there  was  something  strange  about  her 
eyes. 

"Yes;  I  am  sorry,"  I  began,  doubtfully. 

She  had  sallow,  strongly-marked,  but  proud  and  aristo- 
cratic features,  and  a  manner  with  more  than  a  tinge 
of  imperiousness.  Her  face,  her  figure,  her  voice  were 
familiar,  yet  strange  to  me — familiar  because  I  had  heard 
of  her,  and  been  in  the  habit  of  occasionally  seeing  her 
from  my  very  earliest  childhood;  strange,  because  she 
was  reserved  and  not  given  to  seeing  her  neighbors' 
houses  for  purposes  either  of  gossip  or  hospitality.  I  was 
aware  that  about  once  in  two  years  she  made  a  call  at 
our  house,  the  Vicarage,  whether  as  a  mark  of  politeness 
to  us,  or  to  show  that,  though  she  never  entered  a  church, 
she  still  chose  to  lend  her  countenance  and  approval  to 
the  Establishment,  or  whether  merely  out  of  old  use  and 
habit,  I  knew  not.  I  only  knew  that  she  came,  and  that 
until  now  it  had  never  fallen  to  my  lot  to  be  present  upon 
any  of  those  momentous  occasions. 

Feeling  it  a  little  hard  that  my  coveted  solitude  should 
thus  be  interrupted,  and  not  quite  knowing  what  to  say 
to  her,  I  sat  down  and  there  was  a  moment's  pause. 

"  Is  your  mother  well  ?  "  she  inquired. 

"Yes,  thank  you,  very  well.  She  has  gone  with  my 
sister  to  Darton." 

"  Your  father  ?  " 

"  He  is  well  too,  thank  you.  He  has  a  funeral  this 
afternoon." 

"  I  think  you  have  two  sisters,  have  you  not  ?  " 

"Yes;  Adelaide  and  Stella." 

"And  which  are  you  ?" 

"  May ;  I  am  the  second  one." 

All  her  questions  were  put  in  an  almost  severe  tone, 


4  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

and  not  as  if  she  took  very  much  interest  in  me  or  mine. 
I  felt  my  timidity  increase,  and  yet — I  liked  her.  Yes,  I 
felt  most  distinctly  that  I  liked  her. 

"May,"  she  remarked,  meditatively;  "May  Wedder- 
burn.  Are  you  aware  that  you  have  a  very  pretty  north- 
country  sounding  name  ?  " 

"  I  have  not  thought  about  it." 

"  How  old  are  you  ?" 

"  I  am  a  little  over  seventeen." 

"  Ah !     And  what  do  you  do  all  day  ?" 

"  Oh  ! "  I  began,  doubtfully,  "  not  much,  I  am  afraid, 
that  is  useful  or  valuable." 

"You  are  young  enough  yet.  Don't  begin  to  do  things 
with  a  purpose  for  some  time  to  come.  Be  happy  whilst 
you  can." 

"I  am  not  at  all  happy,"  I  replied,  not  thinking  of 
what  I  was  saying,  and  then  feeling  that  I  could  have 
bitten  my  tongue  out  with  vexation.  What  could  it 
possibly  matter  to  Miss  Hallam  whether  I  were  happy  or 
not  ?  She  was  asking  me  all  these  questions  to  pass  the 
time,  and  in  order  to  talk  about  something  while  she  sat 
in  our  house. 

"What  makes  you  unhappy?  Are  your  sisters  dis- 
agreeable ?  " 

"Oh,  no.'" 

"Are  your  parents  unkind  ?" 

"  Unkind /"  I  echoed,  thinking  what  a  very  extraor- 
dinary woman  she  was  and  wondering  what  kind  of  ex- 
perience hers  could  have  been  in  the  past. 

"Then  I  cannot  imagine  what  cause  for  unhappiness 
you  can  have,"  she  said,  composedly. 

I  made  no  answer.  I  repented  me  of  having  uttered 
the  words,  and  Miss  Hallam  went  on : 

"I  should  advise  you  to  forget  that  there  is  such  a 
thing  as  unhappiness.  You  will  soon  succeed." 

"Yes — I  will  try,"  said  I  in  a  low  voice,  as  the  cause 
of  my  unhappiness  rose  up,  gaunt,  grim  and  forbidding, 
with  thin  lips  curved  in  a  mocking  smile,  and  glittering, 
snake-like  eyes  fixed  upon  my  face.  I  shivered  faintly ; 
and  she,  though  looking  quickly  at  me,  seemed  to  think 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  5 

she  had  said  enough  about  my  unhappiness.  Her  next 
question  surprised  me  much. 

"Are  you  fair  in  complexion?"  she  inquired. 

"  Yes,"  said  I.  "  I  am  very  fair — fairer  than  either  of 
my  sisters.  But  are  you  near-sighted  ?  " 

" Near  sight/ess"  she  replied,  with  a  bitter  little  laugh. 
"  Cataract.  I  have  so  many  joys  in  my  life  that  provi- 
dence has  thought  fit  to  temper  the  sunshine  of  my  lot. 
I  am  to  content  myself  with  the  store  of  pleasant  remem- 
brances with  which  my  mind  is  crowded,  when  I  can  see 
nothing  outside.  A  delightful  arrangement.  It  is  what 
pious  people  call  a  '  cross  '  or  a  '  visitation '  or  something 
of  that  kind.  I  am  not  pious,  and  I  call  it  the  destruc- 
tion of  what  little  happiness  I  had." 

"  Oh,  I  am  very,  very  sorry  for  you,"  I  answered,  feel- 
ing what  I  spoke,  for  it  had  always  been  my  idea  of 
misery  to  be  blind — shut  away  from  the  sunlight  upon 
the  fields,  from  the  hue  of  the  river,  from  all  that  "lust 
of  the  eye  "  which  meets  us  on  every  side. 

"  But  are  you  quite  alone  ?  "  I  continued.  "  Have  you 
no  one  to — " 

I  stopped ;  I  was  about  to  add,  "  to  be  kind  to  you — 
to  take  care  of  you  ? "  but  I  suddenly  remembered  that 
it  would  not  do  for  me  to  ask  such  questions. 

"No,  I  live  quite  alone,"  said  she,  abruptly.  "Did 
you  think  of  offering  to  relieve  my  solitucfe  ?  " 

I  felt  myself  burning  with  a  hot  blush  all  over  my  face 
as  I  stammered  out : 

"  I  am  sure  I  never  thought  of  anything  so  impertinent, 
but — but — if  there  was  anything  I  could  do — read  or — " 

I  stopped  again.  Never  very  confident  in  myself,  I 
felt  a  miserable  sense  that  I  might  have  been  going  too 
far.  I  wished  most  ardently  that  my  mother  or  Adelaide 
had  been  there  to  take  the  weight  of  such  a  conversation 
from  my  shoulders.  What  was  my  surprise  to  hear  Miss 
Hallam  say,  in  a  tone  quite  smooth,  polished,  and  polite : 

"  Come  and  drink  tea  with  me  to-morrow  afternoon — 
afternoon  tea  I  mean.  You  can  go  away  again  as  soon 
as  you  like.  Will  you  ?  " 

"  Oh,  thank  you.     Yes,  I  will." 


6  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

"  Very  well.  I  shall  expect  you  between  four  and  five. 
Good-afternoon." 

"Let  me  come  with  you  to  your  carriage,"  said  I, 
hastily.  "  Jane — our  servant  is  so  clumsy." 

I  preceded  her  with  care,  saw  her  seated  in  her  carriage 
and  driven  away  towards  the  Grange,  which  was  but  a 
few  hundred  yards  from  our  own  gates,  and  then  I  re- 
turned to  the  house.  And  as  I  went  in  again,  my  com- 
panion-shadow glided  once  more  to  my  side  with  soft, 
insinuating,  irresistible  importunity,  and  I  knew  that  it 
would  be  my  faithful  attendant  for — who  could  say  how 
long? 


CHAPTER  II. 

"  Traversons  gravement  ce  m£chant  mascarade  qu'on  appelle  le 
monde." 


houses  in  Skernford  —  the  houses  of  "the  gentry" 
that  is  to  say  —  lay  almost  all  on  one  side  an  old- 
fashioned,  sleepy-looking  "green"  towards  which  their  en- 
trances lay:  but  their  real  front,  their  pleasantest  aspect, 
was  on  their  other  side,  facing  the  river  which  ran  below, 
and  down  to  which  their  gardens  sloped  in  terraces.  Our 
house,  the  Vicarage,  lay  nearest  the  church;  Miss  Hal- 
lam's  house,  the  Grange,  farthest  from  the  church.  Be- 
tween these,  larger  and  more  imposing,  in  grounds  beside 
which  ours  seemed  to  dwindle  down  to  a  few  flower-beds, 
lay  Deeplish  Hall,  whose  owner,  Sir  Peter  Le  Marchant, 
had  lately  come  to  live  there,  at  least  for  a  time. 

It  was  many  years  since  Sir  Peter  Le  Marchant,  whose 
image  at  this  time  was  fated  to  enter  so  largely  and  so 
much  against  my  will  into  all  my  calculations,  had  lived 
at  or  even  visited  his  estate  at  Skernford.  He  was  a  man 
of  immense  property,  and  report  said  that  Deeplish  Hall, 
which  we  innocent  villagers  looked  upon  as  such  an  impos- 
ing mansion,  was  but  one  and  not  the  grandest  of  his  sev- 
eral country  houses.  All  that  I  knew  of  his  history  —  or 
rather,  all  that  I  had  heard  of  it,  whether  truly  or  not,  I 
was  in  no  position  to  say  —  was  but  a  vague  and  misty  ac- 
count; yet  that  little  had  given  me  a  dislike  to  him  before 
I  ever  met  him. 

Miss  Hallam,  our  neighbor,  who  lived  in  such  solitude 
and  retirement,  was  credited  with  having  a  history  —  if  re- 


8  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

port  had  only  been  able  to  fix  upon  what  it  was.  She 
was  popularly  supposed  to  be  of  a  grim  and  decidedly  ec- 
centric disposition.  Eccentric  she  was,  as  I  afterwards 
found — as  I  thought  when  I  first  saw  her.  She  seldom 
appeared  either  in  church  or  upon  any  other  public  occa- 
sion, and  was  said  to  be  the  deadly  enemy  of  Sir  Peter 
Le  Marchant  and  all  pertaining  to  him.  There  was  some 
old,  far-back  romance  connected  with  it — a  romance  which 
I  did  not  understand,  for  up  to  now  I  had  never  known 
either  her  or  Sir  Peter  sufficiently  to  take  any  interest  in 
the  story,  but  the  report  ran  that  in  days  gone  by — how 
far  gone  by,  too,  they  must  have  been! — Miss  Hallam,  a 
young  and  handsome  heiress,  loved  very  devotedly  her 
one  sister,  and  that  sister — so  much  was  known  as  a  fact 
— had  become  Lady  Le  Marchant :  was  not  her  monu- 
ment in  the  church  between  the  Deeplish  Hall  and  the 
Hallam  Grange  pews?  Was  not  the  tale  of  her  virtues 
and  her  years — seven-and-twenty  only  did  she  count  of 
the  latter — there  recorded?  That  Barbara  Hallam  had 
been  married  to  Sir  Peter  was  matter  of  history:  what 
was  not  matter  of  history,  but  of  tradition  which  was  be- 
lieved in  quite  as  firmly,  was  that  the  baronet  had  ill- 
treated  his  wife — in  what  way  was  not  distinctly  specified, 
but  I  have  since  learned  that  it  was  true;  she  was  a  gen- 
tle creature,  and  he  made  her  life  miserable  unto  her. 
She  was  idolized  by  her  elder  sister,  who,  burning  with  in- 
dignation at  the  treatment  to  which  her  darling  had  been 
subjected,  had  become,  even  in  disposition,  an  altered  wo- 
man. From  a  cheerful,  open-hearted,  generous,  some- 
what brusque  young  person,  she  had  grown  into  a  prema- 
turely old,  soured,  revengeful  woman.  It  was  to  her  that 
the  weak  and  injured  sister  had  fled;  it  was  in  her  arms 
that  she  had  died.  Since  her  sister's  death,  Miss  Hallam 
had  withdrawn  entirely  from  society,  cherishing  a  perpet- 
ual grudge  against  Sir  Peter  Le  Marchant.  Whether  she 
had  relations  or  none,  friends  or  acquaintance  outside  the 
small  village  in  which  she  lived,  none  knew.  If  so,  they 
limited  their  intercourse  with  her  to  correspondence,  for 
no  visitor  ever  penetrated  to  her  damp  old  Grange,  nor 
had  she  ever  been  known  to  leave  it  with  the  purpose  of 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  g 

making  any  journey  abroad.  If  perfect  silence  and  per- 
fect retirement  could  hush  the  tongues  of  tradition  and  re- 
port, then  Miss  Hallam's  story  should  have  been  forgotten. 
But  it  was  not  forgotten.  Such  things  never  do  become 
forgotten. 

It  was  only  since  Sir  Peter  had  appeared  suddenly  some 
six  weeks  ago  at  Deeplish  Hall,  that  these  dry  bones  of 
tradition  had  for  me  quickened  into  something  like  life, 
and  had  acquired  a  kind  of  interest  for  me. 

Our  father,  as  vicar  of  the  parish,  had  naturally  called 
upon  Sir  Peter,  and  as  naturally  invited  him  to  his  house. 
His  visits  had  begun  by  his  coming  to  lunch  one  day,  and 
we  had  speculated  about  him  a  little  in  advance,  half  jest- 
ingly, raking  up  old  stories,  and  attributing  to  him  various 
evil  qualities  of  a  hard  and  loveless  old  age.  But  after  he 
had  gone,  the  verdict  of  Stella  and  myself  was,  "  Much 
worse  than  we  expected."  He  was  different  from  what  we 
had  expected.  Perhaps  that  annoyed  us.  Instead  of  be- 
ing able  to  laugh  at  him,  we  found  something  oppressive, 
chilling,  to  me  frightful,  in  the  cold  sneering  smile  which 
seemed  perpetually  hovering  about  his  thin  lips — in  the 
fixed  snaky  glitter  of  his  still,  intent  gray  eyes.  His  face 
was  pale,  his  manners  were  polished,  but  to  meet  his  eye 
was  a  thing  I  hated,  and  the  touch  of  his  hand  made  me 
shudder.  While  speaking  in  the  politest  possible  manner, 
he  had  eyed  over  Adelaide  and  me  in  a  manner  which  I 
do  not  think  either  of  us  had  ever  experienced  before.  I 
hated  him  from  the  moment  in  which  I  saw  him  looking 
at  me  with  expression  of  approval.  To  be  approved  by 
Sir  Peter  Le  Marchant,  could  fate  devise  anything  more 
horrible?  Yes,  I  knew  now  that  it  could:  one  might 
have  to  submit  to  the  approval,  to  live  in  the  approval. 
I  had  expressed  my  opinion  on  the  subject  with  freedom 
to  Adelaide,  who  to  my  surprise  had  not  agreed  with  me, 
and  had  told  me  coldly  that  I  had  no  business  to  speak 
disrespectfully  of  my  father's  visitors.  I  was  silenced,  but 
unhappy.  From  the  first  moment  of  seeing  Sir  Peter,  I 
had  felt  an  uncomfortable,  uneasy  feeling,  which  had  I 
been  sentimental  I  might  have  called  a  presentiment,  but 
I  was  not  sentimental.  I  was  a  healthy  young  girl  of 


10  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

seventeen,  believing  in  true  love,  and  goodness,  and  gen- 
tleness very  earnestly;  "fancy  free,"  having  read  few  nov- 
els, and  heard  no  gossip — a  very  baby  in  many  respects. 
Our  home  might  be  a  quiet  one,  a  poor  one,  a  dull  one — 
our  circle  of  acquaintance  small,  our  distractions  of  the 
most  limited  description  imaginable,  but  at  least  we  knew 
no  evil,  and — I  speak  for  Stella  and  myself — thought 
none.  Our  father  and  mother  were  persons  with  nothing 
whatever  remarkable  about  them.  Both  had  been  hand- 
some. My  mother  was  pretty,  my  father  good-looking, 
yet.  I  loved  them  both  dearly.  It  had  never  entered 
my  head  to  do  otherwise  than  love  them,  but  the  love 
which  made  the  star  and  the  poetry  of  my  quiet  and  un- 
romantic  life  was  that  I  bore  to  Adelaide,  my  eldest  sister. 
I  believed  in  her  devotedly,  and  accepted  her  judgment, 
given  in  her  own  peculiar  proud,  decided  way,  upon  ev- 
ery topic  on  which  she  chose  to  express  it.  She  was  one- 
and-twenty,  and  I  used  to  think  I  could  lay  down  my  life 
for  her. 

It  was  consequently  a  shock  to  me  to  hear  her  speak 
in  praise — yes,  in  praise  of  Sir  Peter  Le  Marchant.  My 
first  impulse  was  to  distrust  my  own  judgment,  but  no :  I 
could  not  long  do  so.  He  was  repulsive ;  he  was  stealthy, 
hard,  cruel,  in  appearance.  I  could  not  account  for 
Adelaide's  perversity  in  liking  him,  and  passed  puzzled 
days  and  racked  my  brain  in  conjecture  as  to  why  when 
Sir  Peter  came,  Adelaide  should  be  always  at  home, 
always  neat  and  fresTi — not  like  me.  Why  was  Adelaide, 
who  found  it  too  much  trouble  to  join  Stella  and  me  in 
our  homely  concerts,  always  ready  to  indulge  Sir  Peter's 
taste  for  music,  to  entertain  him  with  conversation  ? — and 
she  could  talk.  She  was  unlike  me  in  that  respect.  I 
never  had  a  brilliant  gift  of  conversation.  She  was  witty 
about  the  things  she  did  know,  and  never  committed  the 
fatal  mistake  of  pretending  to  be  up  in  the  things  she  did 
not  know.  These  gifts  of  mind,  these  social  powers,  were 
always  ready  for  the  edification  of  Sir  Peter.  By  degrees 
the  truth  forced  itself  upon  me.  Some  one  said — I  over- 
heard it — that  "that  handsome  Miss  Wedderburn  was 
undoubtedly  setting  her  cap  at  Sir  Peter  Le  Marchant." 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  1 1 

Never  shall  I  forget  the  fury  which  at  first  possessed  me, 
the  conviction  which  gradually  stole  over  me  that  it  was 
true.  My  sister  Adelaide,  beautiful,  proud,  clever — and  I 
had  always  thought  good — had  distinctly  in  view  the 
purpose  of  becoming  Lady  Le  Marchant.  I  shed  count- 
less tears  over  the  miserable  discovery,  and  dared  not 
speak  to  her  of  it.  But  that  was  not  the  worst.  My 
horizon  darkened.  One  horrible  day  I  discovered  that  it 
was  I,  and  not  Adelaide,  who  had  attracted  Sir  Peter's 
attentions.  It  was  not  a  scene,  not  a  set  declaration. 
It  was  a  word  in  that  smooth  voice,  a  glance  from  that 
hated  and  chilling  eye,  which  suddenly  aroused  me  to  the 
truth. 

Shuddering,  dismayed,  I  locked  the  matter  up  within 
my  own  breast,  and  wished  with  a  longing  that  sometimes 
made  me  cfuite  wretched  that  I  could  quit  Skernford,  my 
home,  my  life,  which  had  lost  zest  for  me,  and  was  be- 
come a  burden  to  me.  The  knowledge  that  Sir  Peter 
admired  me  absolutely  degraded  me  in  my  own  eyes.  I 
felt  as  if  I  could  not  hold  up  my  head.  I  had  spoken  to 
no  one  of  what  had  passed  within  me,  and  I  trusted  it 
had  not  been  noticed;  but  all  my  joy  was  gone.  It  was 
as  if  I  stood  helpless  while  a  noisome  reptile  coiled  its 
folds  around  me. 

To-day,  after  Miss  Hallam's  departure,  I  dropped  into 
my  now  chronic  state  of  listlessness  and  sadness.  They 
all  came  back:  my  father  from  the  church;  my  mother 
and  Adelaide  from  Darton,  whither  they  had  been  on  a 
shopping  expedition ;  Stella  from  a  stroll  by  the  river. 
We  had  tea,  and  they  dispersed  quite  cheerfully  to  their 
various  occupations.  I,  seeing  the  gloaming  gently  and 
dim  falling  over  the  earth,  walked  out  of  the  house  into 
the  garden,  and  took  my  way  towards  the  river.  I  passed 
an  arbor  in  which  Stella  and  I  had  loved  to  sit  and  watch 
the  stream,  and  talk  and  read  Miss  Austen's  -novels. 
Stella  was  there  now,  with  a  well-thumbed  copy  of  "Pride 
and  Prejudice"  in  her  hand. 

"Come  and  sit  down,  May,"  she  apostrophized  me. 
"  Do  listen  to  this  about  Bingley  and  Wickham." 

"  No,  thank  you,"  said  I,  abstractedly,  and  feeling  that 


12 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


Stella  was  not  the  person  to  whom  I  could  confide  my 
woe.  Indeed,  on  scanning  mentally  the  list  of  my  ac- 
quaintance, I  found  that  there  was  not  one  in  whom  I 
could  confide.  It  gave  me  a  strange  sense  of  loneliness 
and  aloofness,  and  hardened  me  more  than  the  reading  of 
a  hundred  satires  on  the  meannesses  of  society. 

I  went  along  the  terrace  by  the  river-side,  and  looked 
up  to  the  left — traces  of  Sir  Peter  again.  There  was  the 
terrace  of  Deeplish  Hall,  which  stood  on  a  height  just 
above  a  bend  in  the  river.  It  was  a  fine  old  place.  The 
sheen  of  the  glass-houses  caught  the  rays  of  the  sun  and 
glanced  in  them.  It  looked  rich,  old,  and  peaceful.  I 
had  been  many  a  time  through  its  gardens,  and  thought 
them  beautiful,  and  wished  they  belonged  to  me.  Now  I 
felt  that  they  lay  in  a  manner  at  my  feet,  and  my  strong- 
est feeling  respecting  them  was  an  earnest  wish  that  I 
might  never  see  them  again. 

Thus  agreeably  meditating,  I  insensibly  left  our  own 
garden  and  wandered  on  in  the  now  quickly  falling 
twilight  into  a  narrow  path  leading  across  a  sort  of  No- 
Man's-Land  into  the  demesne  of  Sir  Peter  Le  Marchant. 
In  my  trouble  I  scarcely  remarked  where  I  was  going, 
and  with  my  eyes  cast  upon  the  ground  was  wishing  that 
I  could  feel  again  as  I  once  had  felt,  when 

"I  nothing  had,  and  yet  enough;  " 

and  was  sadly  wondering  what  I  could  do  to  escape  from 
the  net  in  which  1  felt  myself  caught,  when  a  shadow 
darkened  the  twilight  in  which  I  stood,  and  looking  up  I 
saw  Sir  Peter,  and  heard  these  words : 

"Good-evening,  Miss  Wedderburn.  Are  you  enjoying 
a  little  stroll  ?  " 

By,  as  it  seemed  to  me,  some  strange  miracle  all  my  in- 
ward fears  and  tremblings  vanished.  I  did  not  feel  afraid 
of  Sir  Peter  in  the  least.  I  felt  that  here  was  a  crisis. 
This  meeting  would  show  me  whether  my  fears  had  been 
groundless,  and  my  own  vanity  and  self-consciousness  of 
unparalleled  proportions,  or  whether  I  had  judged  truly, 
and  had  good  reason  for  my  qualms  and  anticipations. 

It  came.     The  alarm  had  not  been  a  false  one.     Sir 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  !3 

Peter,  after  conversing  with  me  for  a  short  time,  did,  in 
clear  and  unmistakable  terms,  inform  me  that  he  loved 
me,  and  asked  me  to  marry  him. 

"  I  thank  you,"  said  I,  mastering  my  impulse  to  cover 
my  face  with  my  hands,  and  run  shuddering  away  from 
him.  "  I  thank  you  for  the  honor  you  offer  me,  and  beg 
to  decline  it." 

He  looked  surprised,  and  still  continued  to  urge  me  ins 
a  manner  which  roused  a  deep  inner  feeling  of  indignation 
within  me,  for  it  seemed  to  say  that  he  understood  me  to 
be  overwhelmed  with  the  honor  he  proposed  to  confer 
upon  me,  and  humored  my  timidity  about  accepting  it. 
There  was  no  doubt  in  his  manner;  not  the  shadow  of  a 
suspicion  that  I  could  be  in  earnest.  There  was  some- 
thing that  turned  my  heart  cold  within  me — a  cool,  sneer- 
ing tone,  which  not  all  his  professions  of  affection  could 
disguise.  Since  that  time  I  have  heard  Sir  Peter  explic- 
itly state  his  conception  of  the  sphere  of  woman  in  the 
world :  it  was  not  an  exalted  one.  He  could  not  even 
now  quite  conceal  that  while  he  told  me  he  wished  to 
make  me  his  wife  and  the  partner  of  his  heart  and  posses- 
sions, yet  he  knew  that  such  professions  were  but  words — 
that  he  did  not  sue  for  my  love  (poor  Sir  Peter !  I  doubt 
if  ever  in  his  long  life  he  was  blessed  with  even  a  mo- 
mentary glimpse  of  the  divine  countenance  of  pure  Love), 
but  offered  to  buy  my  youth,  and  such  poor  beauty  as  I 
might  have,  with  his  money  and  his  other  worldly  ad- 
vantages. 

Sir  Peter  was  a  blank,  utter  skeptic  with  regard  to  the 
worth  of  woman.  He  did  not  believe  in  their  virtue  nor 
their  self-respect ;  he  believed  them  to  be  clever  actresses, 
and,  taken  all  in  all,  the  best  kind  of  amusement  to  be 
had  for  money.  The  kind  of  opinion  was  then  new  to 
me  :  the  effect  of  it  upon  my  mind  such  as  might  be  ex- 
pected. I  was  seventeen,  and  an  ardent  believer  in  all 
things  pure  and  of  good  report. 

Nevertheless,  I  remained  composed,  sedate,  even  courte- 
ous to  the  last — till  I  had  fairly  made  Sir  Peter  understand 
that  no  earthly  power  should  induce  me  to  marry  him; 
till  I  had  let  him  see  that  I  fully  comprehended  the  ad- 
vantages of  the  position  he  offered  me,  and  declined  them. 


I4  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

"  Miss  Wedderburn,"  said  he  at  last — and  his  voice  was 
as  unruffled  as  my  own  ;  had  it  been  more  angry  I  should 
have  feared  it  less — "  do  you  fear  opposition  ?  I  do  not 
think  your  parents  would  refuse  their  consent  to  our 
union." 

I  closed  my  eyes  for  a  moment,  and  a  hand  seemed  to 
tighten  about  my  heart.  Then  I  said : 

"I  speak  without  reference  to  my  parents.  In  such  a 
matter  J  judge  for  myself." 

"Always  the  same  answer?" 

"Always  the  same,  Sir  Peter." 

"  It  would  be  most  ungentlemanly  to  press  the  subject 
any  further."  His  eyes  were  fixed  upon  me  with  the  same 
cold,  snake-like  smile.  "  I  will  not  be  guilty  of  such  a 
solecism.  Your  family  affections,  my  dear  young  lady, 
are  strong,  I  should  suppose.  Which — whom  do  you  love 
best?" 

Surprised  at  the  blunt  straightforwardness  of  the  ques- 
tion, as  coming  from  him,  I  replied,  thoughtlessly,  "  Oh, 
my  sister  Adelaide." 

"Indeed!  I  should  imagine  she  was  in  every  way 
worthy  the  esteem  of  so  disinterested  a  person  as  yourself. 
A  different  disposition,  though — quite.  Will  you  allow 
me  to  touch  your  hand  before  I  retire  ?  " 

Trembling  with  uneasy  forebodings  roused  by  his  con- 
tinual sneering  smile,  and  the  peculiar  evil  light  in  his 
eyes,  I  yet  went  through  with  my  duty  to  the  end.  He 
took  the  hand  I  extended,  and  raised  it  to  his  lips  with  a 
low  bow. 

"Good-evening,  Miss  Wedderburn." 

Faintly  returning  his  valediction,  I  saw  him  go  away, 
and  then  in  a  dream,  a  maze,  a  bewilderment,  I  too 
turned  slowly  away  and  walked  to  the  house  again.  I 
felt,  I  knew  I  had  behaved  well  and  discreetly,  but  I  had 
no  confidence  whatever  that  the  matter  was  at  an  end. 


CHAPTER  III. 

"  Lucifer,  Star  of  the  Morning !     How  art  thou  fallen !  " 

I  FOUND  myself,  without  having  met  any  one  of  my 
family,  in  my  own  room,  in  the  semi-darkness,  seated 
on  a  chair  by  my  bedside,  unnerved,  faint,  miserable  with 
a  misery  such  as  I  had  never  felt  before.  The  window 
was  open,  and  there  came  up  a  faint  scent  of  sweet  brier 
and  wall-flowers  in  soft,  balmy  gusts,  driven  into  the  room 
by  the  April  night-wind.  There  rose  a  moon  and  flooded 
the  earth  with  radiance.  Then  came  a  sound  of  foot- 
steps; the  door  of  the  next  room,  that  belonging  to 
Adelaide,  was  opened.  I  heard  her  come  in,  strike  a 
match,  and  light  her  candle ;  the  click  of  the  catch  as  the 
blind  rolled  down.  There  was  a  door  between  her  room 
and  mine,  and  presently  she  passed  it,  and  bearing  a 
candle  in  her  hand,  stood  in  my  presence.  My  sister  was 
very  beautiful,  very  proud.  She  was  cleverer,  stronger, 
more  decided  than  I,  or  rather,  while  she  had  those  quali- 
ties very  strongly  developed,  I  was  almost  without  them. 
She  always  held  her  head  up,  and  had  one  of  those 
majestic  figures  which  require  no  back-boards  to  teach 
them  uprightness,  no  master  of  deportment  to  instil  grace 
into  their  movements.  Her  toilet  and  mine  were  not,  as 
may  be  supposed,  of  very  rich  materials  or  varied  char- 
acter; but  while  my  things  always  looked  as  bad  of  their 
kind  as  they  could — fitted  badly,  sat  badly,  were  creased 
and  crumpled — hers  always  had  a  look  of  freshness;  she 
w  ore  the  merest  old  black  merino  as  if  it  were  velvet,  and 
a  muslin  frill  like  a  point-lace  collar.  There  are  such 


j6  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

people  in  the  world.  I  have  always  admired  them,  envied 
them,  wondered  at  them  from  afar:  it  has  never  been  my 
fate  in  the  smallest  degree  to  approach  or  emulate  them. 

Her  pale  face,  with  its  perfect  outlines,  was  just  illu- 
mined by  the  candle  she  held,  and  the  light  also  caught 
the  crown  of  massive  plaits  which  she  wore  around  her 
head.  She  set  the  candle  down.  I  sat  still  and  looked 
at  her. 

"  You  are  there,  May,"  she  remarked. 

"  Yes,"  was  my  subdued  response. 

"  Where  have  you  been  all  evening  ?  " 

"  It  does  not  matter  to  any  one." 

"Indeed  it  does.  You  were  talking  to  Sir  Peter  Le 
Marchant.  I  saw  you  meet  him  from  my  bedroom  win- 
dow." 

"Did  you?" 

"  Did  he  propose  to  you  ? "  she  inquired,  with  a  com- 
posure which  seemed  to  me  frightful.  "Worldly,"  I 
thought,  was  a  weak  word  to  apply  to  her,  and  I  was 
suffering  acutely. 

"He  did." 

"  Well,  I  suppose  it  would  be  a  little  difficult  to  accept 
him." 

"  I  did  not  accept  him." 

"  What  ?  "  she  inquired,  as  if  she  had  not  quite  caught 
what  I  said. 

"  I  refused  him,"  said  I,  slightly  raising  my  voice. 

"  What  are  you  telling  me  ?  " 

"The  truth." 

"Sir  Peter  has  fif— " 

"  Don't  mention  Sir  Peter  to  me  again,"  said  I,  nerv- 
ously, and  feeling  as  if  my  heart  would  break.  I  had 
never  quarreled  with  Adelaide  before.  No  reconciliation 
afterwards  could  ever  make  up  for  the  anguish  which  I 
was  going  through  now. 

"Just  listen  to  me,"  she  said,  bending  over  me,  her  lips 
drawn  together.  "  I  ought  to  have  spoken  to  you  before. 
I  don't  know  whether  you  have  ever  given  any  thought 
to  our  position  and  circumstances.  If  not,  it  would  be  as 
well  that  you  should  do  so  now.  Papa  is  fifty-five  years 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  jy 

old,  and  has  three  hundred  a  year.  In  the  course  of  time 
he  will  die,  and  as  his  life  is  not  insured,  and  he  has  regii; 
larly  spent  every  penny  of  his  income — naturally  it  would 
have  been  strange  if  he  hadn't — what  is  to  become  of  us 
when  he  is  dead  ?  " 

"  We  can  work." 

"  Work  ! "  said  she,  with  inexpressible  scorn.  "  Work  ! 
Pray  what  can  we  do  in  the  way  of  work  ?  What  kind 
of  education  have  we  had  ?  The  village  school-mistress 
could  make  us  look  very  small  in  the  matter  of  geography 
and  history.  We  have  not  been  trained  to  work,  and,  let 
me  tell  you,  May,  unskilled  labor  does  not  pay  in  these 
days." 

"  I  am  sure  you  can  do  anything,  Adelaide,  and  I  will 
teach  singing.  I  can  sing." 

"  Pooh !  Uo  you  suppose  that  because  you  can  take  C 
in  alt.  you  are  competent  to  teach  singing?  You  don't 
know  how  to  sing  yourself  yet.  Your  face  is  your  fortune. 
So  is  mine  my  fortune.  So  is  Stella's  her  fortune.  You 
have  enjoyed  yourself  all  your  life  :  you  have  had  seven- 
teen years  of  play  and  amusement,  and  now  you  behave 
like  a  baby.  You  refuse  to  endure  a  little  discomfort,  as 
the  price  of  placing  yourself  and  your  family  forever  out 
of  the  reach  of  trouble  and  trial.  Why,  if  you  were  Sir 
Peter's  wife,  you  could  do  what  you  liked  with  him.  I 
don't  say  anything  about  myself;  but  oh !  May,  I  am 
ashamed  of  you,  I  am  ashamed  of  you !  I  thought  you 
had  more  in  you.  Is  it  possible  that  you  are  nothing  but 
a  romp — nothing  but  a  vulgar  tomboy  ?  Good  heaven ! 
If  the  chance  had  been  mine!" 

"What  would  you  have  done?"  I  whispered,  subdued 
for  the  moment,  but  obstinate  in  my  heart  as  ever. 

"  I  am  nobody  now ;  no  one  knows  me.  But  if  I  had 
had  the  chance  that  you  have  had  to-night,  in  another 
year  I  would  have  been  known  and  envied  by  half  the 
women  in  England.  Bah !  Circumstances  are  too  dis- 
gusting, too  unkind ! " 

"  Oh!  Adelaide,  nothing  could  have  made  up  for  being 
tied  to  that  man,"  said  I  in  a  small  voice;  "and  I  am  not 
ambitious." 


X8  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

"  Ambitious !  You  are  selfish — downright,  grossly,  in- 
ordinately selfish.  Do  you  suppose  no  one  else  ever  had 
to  do  what  they  did  not  like  ?  Why  did  you  not  stop  to 
think,  instead  of  rushing  away  from  the  thing  like  some 
unreasoning  animal  ?  " 

"  Adelaide !  Sir  Peter !  To  marry  him  ?  "  I  implored 
in  tears.  "  How  could  I  ?  I  should  die  of  shame  at  the 
very  thought.  Who  could  help  seeing  that  I  had  sold 
myself  to  him  ?  " 

"And  who  would  think  any  the  worse  of  you?  And 
what  if  they  did  ?  With  fifteen  thousand  a  year  you  may 
defy  public  opinion." 

"Oh,  don't !  don't !"  I  cried,  covering  my  face  with  my 
hands.  "  Adelaide,  you  will  break  my  heart !  " 

Burying  my  face  in  the  bed-quilt,  I  sobbed  irrepressibly. 
Adelaide's  apparent  unconsciousness  of,  or  callousness  to, 
the  stabs  she  was  giving  me,  and  the  anguish  they  caused 
me,  almost  distracted  me. 

She  loosed  my  arm,  remarking,  with  bitter  vexation : 

"  I  feel  as  if  I  could  shake  you  ! " 

She  left  the  room.  I  was  left  to  my  meditations.  My 
head — my  heart  too — ached  distractingly ;  my  arm  was 
sore  where  Adelaide  had  grasped  it ;  I  felt  as  if  she  had 
taken  my  mind  by  the  shoulders  and  shaken  it  roughly. 
I  fastened  both  doors  of  my  room,  resolving  that  neither 
she  nor  any  one  else  should  penetrate  to  my  presence 
again  that  night. 

What  was  I  to  do  ?  Where  to  turn  ?  I  began  now  to 
realize  that  the  Res  domi,  which  had  always  seemed  to  me 
so  abundant  for  all  occasions,  were  really  Res  Augusta, 
and  that  circumstances  might  occur  in  which  they  would 
be  miserably  inadequate. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

"Zu  Rathe  gehen,  und  vom  Rath  zur  That." 

Brief e  BEETHOVEN'S.1 

'"INHERE  was  surely  not  much  in  Miss  Hallam  to  en- 
courage confidences;  yet,  within  half  an  hour  of  the 
time  of  entering  her  house,  I  had  told  her  all  that  op- 
pressed my  heart,  and  had  gained  a  feeling  of  greater 
security  than  I  had  yet  felt.  I  was  sure  that  she  would 
befriend  me.  True,  she  did  not  say  so.  When  I  told 
her  about  Sir  Peter  Le  Marchant's  proposal  to  me,  about 
Adelaide's  behavior;  when,  in  halting  and  stammering 
tones,  and  interrupted  by  tears,  I  confessed  that  I  had 
not  spoken  to  my  father  or  mother  upon  the  subject,  and 
that  I  was  not  quite  sure  of  their  approval  of  what  I  had 
done,  she  even  laughed  a  little,  but  not  in  what  could 
be  called  an  amused  manner.  When  I  had  finished  my 
tale,  she  said : 

"If  I  understand  you,  the  case  stands  thus:  You  have 
refused  Sir  Peter  Le  Marchant,  but  you  do  not  feel  at  all 
sure  that  he  will  not  propose  to  you  again.  Is  it  not  so  ?  " 

"Yes,"  I  admitted. 

"And  you  dread  and  shrink  from  the  idea  of  a  repeti- 
tion of  this  business  ?  " 

"  I  feel  as  if  it  would  kill  me." 

"It  would  not  kill  you.  People  are  not  so  easily  killed 
as  all  that;  but  it  is  highly  unfit  that  you  should  be 
subjected  to  a  recurrence  of  it.  I  will  think  about  it. 
Will  you  have  the  goodness  to  read  me  a  page  of  this 
book?" 

1  The  reader  who  cares  for  translations  of  the  German  expressions  used  in  the 
text,  will  find  them  at  the  end  of  the  volume. 


20  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

Much  surprised  at  this  very  abrupt  change  of  the  sub- 
ject, but  not  daring  to  make  any  observation  upon  it,  I 
took  the  book— the  current  number  of  a  magazine — and 
read  a  page  to  her. 

"That  will  do,"  said  she.  "Now,  will  you  read  this 
letter,  also  aloud  ?  " 

She  put  a  letter  into  my  hand,  and  I  read : 

"'DEAR  MADAM, 

" '  In  answer  to  your  letter  of  last  week,  I  write  to  say 
that  I  could  find  the  rooms  you  require,  and  that  by  me 
you  will  have  many  good  agreements  which  would  make 
your  stay  in  Germany  pleasanter.  My  house  is  a  large 
one  in  the  Alleestrasse.  Dr.  Mittendorf.,  the  oculist,  lives 
not  far  from  here,  and  the  Stiidtische  Augcnkhnik — that 
is,  the  eye  hospital — is  quite  near.  The  rooms  you  would 
have  are  up -stairs — suite  of  salon  and  two  bedrooms, 
with  room  for  your  maid  in  another  part  of  the  house. 
I  have  other  boarders  here  at  the  time>  but  you  would  do 
as  you  pleased  about  mixing  with  them. 

"'With  all  highest  esteem, 
" '  Your  devoted, 

" '  CLARA  STEIXMAXN.'  " 

"You  don't  understand  it  all,  I  suppose?"  said  she, 
when  I  had  finished. 

"No." 

"That  lady  writes  from  Elberthal.  You  have  heard 
of  Elberthal  on  the  Rhine,  I  presume  ?  " 

"  Oh  yes !  A  large  town.  There  used  to  be  a  fine 
picture-gallery  there ;  but  in  the  war  between  the — " 

"There,  thank  you!  I  studied  Guy's  Geography  my- 
self in  my  youth.  I  see  you  know  the  place  I  mean. 
There  is  an  eye  hospital  there,  and  a  celebrated  oculist — 
Mittendorf.  I  am  going  there.  I  don't  suppose  it  will 
be  of  the  least  use;  but  I  am  going.  Drowning  men 
catch  at  straws.  Well,  what  else  can  you  do  ?  You 
don't  read  badly." 

"  I  can  sing — not  very  well,  but  I  can  sing." 

"You  can  sing,"  said  she,  reflectively.     "Just  go  to 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  21 

the  piano  and  let  me  hear  a  specimen.  I  was  once  a 
judge  in  these  matters." 

I  opened  the  piano,  and  sang,  as  well  as  I  could,  an 
English  version  of  " Die  Lotiis-blume." 

My  performance  was  greeted  with  silence,  which  Miss 
Hallam  at  length  broke,  remarking : 

"  I  suppose  you  have  not  had  much  training  ?  " 

"Scarcely  any." 

"  Humph !  Well,  it  is  to  be  had,  even  if  not  in  Skern- 
ford.  Would  you  like  some  lessons  ?  " 

"  I  should  like  a  good  many  things  that  I  am  not  likely 
ever  to  have." 

"At  Elberthal  there  are  all  kinds  of  advantages  with 
regard  to  those  things — music  and  singing,  and  so  on. 
Will  you  come  there  with  me  as  my  companion  ?  " 

I  heard,  but  did  not  fairly  understand.  My  head  was 
in  a  whirl.  Go  to  Germany  with  Miss  Hallam ;  leave 
Skernford,  Sir  Peter,  all  that  had  grown  so  weary  to  me ; 
see  new  places,  live  with  new  people ;  learn  something ! 
No,  I  did  not  grasp  it  in  the  least.  I  made  no  reply,  but 
sat  breathlessly  staring. 

"  But  I  shall  expect  you  to  make  yourself  useful  to  me 
in  many  ways,"  proceeded  Miss  Hallam. 

At  this  touch  of  reality  I  began  to  waken  up  again. 

"  Oh,  Miss  Hallam,  is  it  really  true  ?  Do  you  think 
they  will  let  me  go  ?" 

"You  haven't  answered  me  yet." 

"About  being  useful?  I  would  do  anything  you  like 
— anything  in  the  world." 

"  Do  not  suppose  your  life  will  be  all  roses,  or  you  will 
be  wofully  disappointed.  I  do  not  go  out  at  all;  my 
health  is  bad — so  is  my  temper  very  often.  I  am  what 
people  who  never  had  any  trouble  are  fond  of  calling 
peculiar.  Still,  if  you  are  in  earnest,  and  not  merely 
sentimentalizing,  you  will  take  your  courage  in  your 
hands  and  come  with  me." 

"  Miss  Hallam,"  said  I,  with  tragic  earnestness,  as  I 
took  her  hand,  "I  will  come.  I  see  you  half  mistrust 
me ;  but  if  I  had  to  go  to  Siberia  to  get  out  of  Sir  Peter's 
way,  I  would  go  gladly  and  stay  there.  I  hope  I  shall 


22  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

not  be  very  clumsy.  They  say  at  home  that  I  am,  very, 
but  I  will  do  my  best." 

"  They  call  you  clumsy  at  home,  do  they  ?  " 

"Yes.  My  sisters  are  so  much  cleverer  than  I,  and 
can  do  everything  so  much  better  than  I  can.  I  am 
rather  stupid,  I  know." 

"Very  well,  if  you  like  to  call  yourself  so,  do.  It  is 
decided  that  you  come  with  me.  I  will  see  your  father 
about  it  to-morrow.  I  always  get  my  own  way  when  I 
wish  it.  I  leave  in  about  a  week." 

I  sat  with  clasped  hands,  my  heart  so  full  that  I  could 
not  speak.  Sadness  and  gladness  struggled  hard  within 
me.  The  idea  of  getting  away  from  Skernford  was  al- 
most too  delightful;  the  remembrance  of  Adelaide  made 
my  heart  ache. 


CHAPTER  V. 

"Ade  nun  ihr  Berge,  ihr  vaterlich  Haus! 
Es  treibt  in  die  Feme  mich  machtig  hinaus." 

VOLKSLIED. 

/CONSENT  was  given.  Sir  Peter  was  not  mentioned 
\^,  to  me  by  my  parents,  or  by  Adelaide.  The  days  of 
that  week  flew  rapidly  by. 

I  was  almost  afraid  to  mention  my  prospects  to  Ade- 
laide. I  feared  she  would  resent  my  good  fortune  in  go- 
ing abroad,  and  that  her  anger  at  my  having  spoiled  those 
other  prospects  would  remain  unabated.  Moreover  a 
deeper  feeling  separated  me  from  her  now — the  knowledge 
that  there  lay  a  great  gulf  of  feeling,  sentiment,  opinion 
between  us,  which  nothing  could  bridge  over  or  do  away 
with.  Outwardly  we  might  be  amiable  and  friendly  to 
each  other,  but  confidence,  union,  was  fled  forever.  Once 
again  in  the  future  I  was  destined,  when  our  respective 
principles  had  been  tried  to  the  utmost,  to  have  her  con- 
fidence— to  see  her  heart  of  hearts:  but  for  the  present  we 
were  effectually  divided.  I  had  mortally  offended  her, 
and  it  was  not  a  case  in  which  I  could  with  decency  even 
humble  myself  to  her.  Once,  however,  she  mentioned 
the  future. 

When  the  day  of  our  departure  had  been  fixed,  and 
was  only  two  days  distant;  when  I  was  breathless  with 
hurried  repairing  of  old  clothes,  and  the  equally  hurried 
laying  in  of  a  small  stock  of  new  ones ;  while  I  was  con- 
templating with  awe  the  prospect  of  a  first  journey  to  Lon- 


24  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

don,  to  Ostend,  to  Brussels,  she  said  to  me,  as  I  sat  fever- 
ishly hemming  a  frill: 

"So,  you  are  going  to  Germany  ?" 

"Yes,  Adelaide." 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  there  ?  " 

"  My  duty,  I  hope." 

"  Charity,  my  dear,  and  duty  too,  begins  at  home.  I 
should  say  you  were  going  away  leaving  your  duty  un- 
done." 

I  was  silent,  and  she  went  on: 

'  I  suppose  you  wish  to  go  abroad,  May  ?  " 

'  You  know  I  always  have  wished  to  go." 

'So  do  I." 

'  I  wish  you  were  going  too,"  said  I,  timidly. 

'Thank  you.  My  views  upon  the  subject  are  quite 
different.  When  /  go  abroad  I  shall  go  in  a  different  ca- 
pacity to  that  you  are  going  to  assume.  I  will  let  you 
know  all  about  it  in  due  time." 

"  Very  well,"  said  I,  almost  inaudibly,  having  a  vague 
idea  as  to  what  she  meant,  but  determined  not  to  speak 
about  it. 

The  following  day  the  curtain  rose  upon  the  first  act  of 
the  play — call  it  drama,  comedy,  tragedy,  what  you  will 
— which  was  to  be  played  in  my  absence.  I  had  been  up 
the  village  to  the  post-office,  and  was  returning,  when  I 
saw  advancing  towards  me  two  figures  which  I  had  cause 
to  remember — my  sister's  queenly  height,  her  white  hat 
over  her  eyes,  and  her  sun-shade  in  her  hand,  and  beside 
her  the  pale  face,  with  its  ragged  eyebrows  and  hateful 
sneer,  of  Sir  Peter  Le  Marchant. 

Adelaide,  not  at  all  embarrassed  by  his  company,  was 
smiling  slightly,  and  her  eyes  with  drooped  lids  glanced 
downwards  towards  the  baronet.  I  shrank  into  a  cottage 
to  avoid  them  as  they  came  past,  and  waited.  Adelaide 
was  saying : 

"Proud — yes,  I  am  proud,  I  suppose.  Too  proud,  at 
least,  to — " 

There !  Out  of  hearing.  They  had  passed.  I  hurried 
out  of  the  cottage,  and  home. 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


The  next  day  I  met  Miss  Hallam  and  her  maid  (we 
three  traveled  alone)  at  the  station,  and  soon  we  were 
whirling  smoothly  along  our  southward  way — to  York  first, 
then  to  London,  and  so  out  into  the  world,  thought  I. 


BOOK  II. 

LIFE. 

CHAPTER  I. 

"  Ein  Held  aus  der  Fremde,  gar  kiihn." 

WE  had  left  Brussels  and  Belgium  behind,  had  depart- 
ed from  the  regions  of  Chemins  de  fer,  and  entered 
those  of  Eiscnbahncn.  We  were  at  Cologne,  where  we 
had  to  change  and  wait  half  an  hour  before  we  could  go 
on  to  Elberthal.  We  sat  in  the  Wartesaal,  and  I  had 
committed  to  my  charge  two  bundles,  with  strict  injunc- 
tions not  to  lose  them. 

Then  the  doors  were  opened,  and  the  people  made  a 
mad  rush  to  a  train  standing  somewhere  in  the  dim  dis- 
tance. Merrick,  Miss  Hallam's  maid,  had  to  give  her 
whole  and  entire  attention  to  her  mistress.  I  followed 
close  in  their  wake,  until,  as  we  had  almost  come  to  the 
train,  I  cast  my  eyes  downwards  and  perceived  that  there 
vas  missing  from  my  arm  a  gray  shawl  of  Miss  Hallam's, 
which  had  been  committed  to  my  charge,  and  upon  which 
she  set  a  fidgety  kind  of  value,  asabeing  particularly  warm 
or  particularly  soft. 

Dismayed,  I  neither  hesitated  nor  thought,  but  turned, 
fought  my  way  through  the  throng  of  people  to  the  wait- 
ing-room again,  hunted  every  corner,  but  in  vain,  for  the 
shawl.  Either  it  was  completely  lost,  or  Merrick  had, 
without  my  observing  it,  taken  it  under  her  own  protec- 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


27 


tion.  It  was  not  in  the  waiting-room.  Giving  up  the 
search  I  hurried  to  the  door:  it  was  fast.  No  one  more, 
it  would  seem,  was  to  be  let  out  that  way;  I  must  go 
round,  through  the  passages  into  the  open  hall  of  the  sta- 
tion, and  so  on  to  the  platform  again.  More  easily  said 
than  done.  Always,  from  my  earliest  youth  up,  I  have 
had  a  peculiar  faculty  for  losing  myself.  On  this  eventful 
day  I  lost  myself.  I  ran  through  the  passages,  came  into 
the  great  open  place  surrounded  on  every  side  by  doors 
leading  to  platforms,  offices,  or  booking-offices.  Glanc- 
ing hastily  round,  I  selected  that  door  which  appeared  to 
my  imperfectly-developed  "locality"  to  promise  egress 
upon  the  platform,  pushed  it  open,  and  going  along  a  cov- 
ered passage,  and  through  another  door,  found  myself,  af- 
ter the  loss  of  a  good  five  minutes,  in  a  lofty,  deserted 
wing  of  the  station,  gazing  wildly  at  an  empty  platform, 
and  feverishly  scanning  all  the  long  row  of  doors  to  my 
right,  in  a  mad  effort  to  guess  which  would  take  me  from 
this  delightful  terra  incognita  back  to  my  friends. 

Gepack- Expedition,  I  read,  and  thought  it  did  not  sound 
promising.  Telegraphs  bureau.  Impossible!  Ausgang. 
There  was  the  magic  word,  and  I,  not  knowing  it,  stared 
at  it  and  was  none  the  wiser  for  its  friendly  sign.  I  heard 
a  hollow  whistle  in  the  distance.  No  doubt  it  was  the  El- 
berthal  train  going  away,  and  my  heart  sank  deep,  deep 
within  my  breast.  I  knew  no  German  word.  All  I 
could  say  was  "Elberthal;"  and  my  nearest  approach  to 
"first-class"  was  to  point  to  the  carriage  doors  and  say 
"Ein,"  which  might  or  might  not  be  understood — proba- 
bly not,  when  the  universal  stupidity  of  the  German  rail- 
way official  is  taken  into  consideration,  together  with  his 
chronic  state  of  gratuitous  suspicion  that  a  bad  motive 
lurks  under  every  question  which  is  put  to  him.  I  heard 
a  subdued  bustle  coming  from  the  right  hand  in  the  dis- 
tance, and  I  ran  hastily  to  the  other  end  of  the  great  emp- 
ty place,  seeing,  as  I  thought,  an  opening.  Vain  delusion ! 
Deceptive  dream  of  the  fancy!  There  was  a  glass  window 
through  which  I  looked  and  saw  a  street  thronged  with 
passengers  and  vehicles.  I  hurried  back  again  to  find  my 
way  to  the  entrance  of  the  station  and  there  try  another 


2g  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

door,  when  I  heard  a  bell  ring  violently — a  loud  groaning 
and  shrieking,  and  then  the  sound,  as  it  were,  of  a  train 
departing.  A  porter — at  least  a  person  in  uniform,  ap- 
peared in  a  door-way.  How  I  rushed  up  to  him !  How 
I  seized  his  arm,  and  dropping  my  rugs  gesticulated  ex- 
citedly and  panted  forth  the  word  "  Elberthal ! " 

"Elberthal?"  said  he  in  a  guttural  bass;  "  Wollt  ihr 
nafh  Elberthal,  Frdulcinchcn .'  " 

There  was  an  impudent  twinkle  in  his  eye,  as  it  were 
impertinence  trying  to  get  the  better  of  beer,  and  I  reiter- 
ated "Elberthal,"  growing  very  red,  and  cursing  all  for- 
eign speeches  by  my  gods — a  process  often  employed,  I 
believe,  by  cleverer  persons  than  I,  with  reference  to 
things  they  do  not  understand. 

"  Schonfort,  Fraiilein"  he  continued,  with  a  grin. 

"  But  where— what — Elberthal!  " 

He  was  about  to  make  some  further  reply,  when,  turn- 
ing, he  seemed  to  see  some  one,  and  assumed  a  more  re- 
spectful demeanor.  I  too  turned,  and  saw  at  some  little 
distance  from  us  a  gentleman  sauntering  along,  who, 
though  coming  toward  us,  did  not  seem  to  observe  us. 
Would  he  understand  me  if  I  spoke  to  him  ?  Desperate 
as  I  was,  I  felt  some  timidity  about  trying  it.  Never  had 
I  felt  so  miserable,  so  helpless,  so  utterly  ashamed  as  I 
did  then.  My  lips  trembled  as  the  new-comer  drew 
nearer,  and  the  porter,  taking  the  opportunity  of  quitting 
a  scene  which  began  to  bore  him,  slipped  away.  I  was 
left  alone  on  the  platform,  nervously  snatching  short 
glances  at  the  person  slowly,  very  slowly  approaching 
me.  He  did  not  look  up  as  if  he  beheld  me  or  in  any 
way  remarked  my  presence.  His  eyes  were  bent  towards 
the  ground  :  his  fingers  drummed  a  tune  upon  his  chest. 
As  he  approached,  I  heard  that  he  was  humming  some- 
thing. I  even  heard  the  air ;  it  has  been  impressed  upon 
my  memory  firmly  enough  since,  though  I  did  not  know 
it  the;. — the  air  of  the  March  from  Raff's  Fifth  Symphonic, 
the  "Lenore."  I  heard  the  tune  softly  hummed  in  a 
mellow  voice  as,  with  face  burning  and  glowing,  I  placed 
myself  before  him.  Then  he  looked  suddenly  up  as  if 
startled,  fixed  upon  me  a  pair  of  eyes  which  gave  me  a 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


29 


kind  of  shock ;  so  keen,  so  commanding  were  they,  with 
a  kind  of  tameless  freedom  in  their  glance  such  as  I  had 
never  seen  before. 

Arrested  (no  doubt  by  my  wild  and  excited  appearance), 
he  stood  still  and  looked  at  me,  and  as  he  looked  a  slight 
smile  began  to  dawn  upon  his  lips.  Not  an  Englishman. 
I  should  have  known  him  for  an  outlander  anywhere.  I 
remarked  no  details  of  his  appearance ;  only  that  he  was 
tall  and  had,  as  it  seemed  to  me,  a  commanding  bearing. 
I  stood  hesitating  and  blushing.  (To  this  very  day  the 
blood  comes  to  my  face  as  I  think  of  my  agony  of  blushes 
in  that  immemorial  moment.)  I  saw  a  handsome — a  very 
handsome  face,  quite  different  from  any  I  had  ever  seen 
before :  the  startling  eyes  before  spoken  of,  and  which 
surveyed  me  with  a  look  so  keen,  so  cool  and  so  bright, 
which  seemed  to  penetrate  through  and  through  me; 
while  a  slight  smile  curled  the  light  mustache  upwards — 
a  general  aspect  which  gave  me  the  impression  that  he 
was  not  only  a  personage,  but  a  very  great  personage — 
with  a  flavor  of  something  else  permeating  it  all  which 
puzzled  me  and  made  me  feel  embarrassed  as  to  how  to 
address  him.  While  I  stood  inanely  trying  to  gather  my 
senses  together,  he  took  off  the  little  cloth  cap  he  wore, 
and  bowing,  asked : 

"  Nein  Fraulein,  in  what  can  I  assist  you  ?  " 

His  English  was  excellent — his  bow  like  nothing  I  had 
seen  before.  Convinced  that  I  had  met  a  genuine, 
thorough  fine  gentleman  (in  which  I  was  right  for  once 
in  my  life),  I  began  : 

"  I  have  lost  my  way,"  and  my  voice  trembled  in  spite 
of  all  my  efforts  to  steady  it.  "  In  the  crowd  I  lost  my 
friends,  and — I  was  going  to  Elberthal,  and  I  turned  the 
wrong  way — and — " 

"  Have  come  to  destruction,  nicht  wahr  ?  "  He  looked 
at  his  watch,  raised  his  eyebrows  and  shrugged  his  shoul- 
ders. "The  Elberthal  train  is  already  away." 

"  Gone !  "  I  dropped  my  rugs  and  began  a  tremulous 
search  for  my  pocket-handkerchief.  "  What  shall  I  do  ?  " 

"There  is  another — let  me  see — in  one  hour — two — 
will  'ma/  nachschcn.  \Vill  you  come  with  me,  F/iiulcin, 
and  we  will  see  about  the  trains." 


30  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

"  If  you  would  show  me  the  platform,"  said  I.  "  Per- 
haps some  of  them  may  still  be  there.  Oh,  what  will 
they  think  of  me  ?  " 

"We  must  go  to  the  Wartesaal"  said  he.  "Then 
you  can  look  out  and  see  if  you  see  any  of  them." 

I  had  no  choice  but  to  comply. 

My  benefactor  picked  up  my  two  bundles,  and,  in  spite 
of  my  expostulations,  carried  them  with  him.  He  took 
me  through  the  door  inscribed  Ausgang,  and  the  whole 
thing  seemed  so  extremely  simple  now,  that  my  astonish- 
ment as  to  how  I  could  have  lost  myself  increased  every 
minute.  He  went  before  me  to  the  waiting-room,  put  my 
bundles  upon  one  of  the  sofas,  and  we  went  to  the  door. 
The  platform  was  almost  as  empty  as  the  one  we  had 
left.  I  looked  round,  and  though  it  was  only  what  I  had 
expected,  yet  my  face  fell  when  I  saw  how  utterly  and 
entirely  my  party  had  disappeared. 

"  You  see  them  not  ?  "  he  inquired. 

"No — they  are  gone,"  said  I,  turning  away  from  the 
window  and  choking  down  a  sob,  not  very  effectually. 
Turning  my  damp  and  sorrowful  eyes  to  my  companion, 
I  found  he  was  still  smiling  to  himself  as  if  quietly 
amused  at  the  whole  adventure. 

"I'll  go  and  see  at  what  time  the  trains  go  to  Elberthal. 
Suppose  you  sit  down — yes  ?  " 

Passively  obeying,  I  sat  down  and  turned  my  situation 
over  in  my  mind,  in  which  kind  of  agreeable  mental 
legerdemain  I  was  still  occupied  when  he  returned. 

"It  is  now  half-past  three,  and  there  is  a  train  to 
Elberthal  at  seven." 

"  Seven  !  " 

"Seven:  a  very  pleasant  time  to  travel,  nlcht  wahr? 
Then  it  is  still  quite  light." 

"So  long!  Three  hours  and  a  half,"  I  murmured,  de- 
jectedly, and  bit  my  lips  and  hung  my  head.  Then  I 
said,  "  I  am  sure  I  am  much  obliged  to  you.  If  I  might 
ask  you  a  favor  ?  " 

"  Bitte,  mein  Friiulcin  /  " 

"  If  you  could  show  me  exactly  where  the  train  starts 
from,  and — could  I  get  a  ticket  now,  do  you  think  ?  " 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  3! 

"I'm  afraid  not,  so  long  before,"  he  answered,  twisting 
his  mustache,  as  I  could  not  help  seeing,  to  hide  a  smile. 

"Then,"  said  I,  with  stoic  calmness,  "I  shall  never  get 
to  Elberthal — never,  for  I  don't  know  a  word  of  German, 
not  one."  I  sat  more  firmly  down  upon  the  sofa,  and  tried 
to  contemplate  the  future  with  fortitude. 

"  I  can  tell  you  what  to  say,"  said  he,  removing  with 
great  deliberation  the  bundles  which  divided  us,  and 
sitting  down  beside  me.  He  leaned  his  chin  upon  his 
hand  and  looked  at  me,  ever,  as  it  seemed  to  me,  with 
amusement  tempered  with  kindness,  and  I  felt  like  a  very 
little  girl  indeed. 

"You  are  exceedingly  good,"  I  replied,  "but  it  would 
be  of  no  use.  I  am  so  frightened  of  those  men  in  blue 
coats  and  big  mustaches.  I  should  not  be  able  to  say  a 
word  to  any  of  them." 

"  German  is  sometimes  not  unlike  English." 

"  It  is  like  nothing  to  me,  except  a  great  mystery." 

" Billet  is  'ticket',"  said  he  persuasively. 

"  Oh,  is  it  ?  "  said  I,  with  a  gleam  of  hope.  "  Perhaps 
I  could  remember  that.  Billet"  I  repeated  reflectively. 

"Bil/<?/,"  he  amended;  "not  Bil\\k." 

"Bill -yet — Bill-jv?/,"  I  repeated. 

"And  'to  Elberthal'  may  be  said  in  one  word,  'Elber- 
thal.' 'Ein  Billet — Elberthal — erster  Classe" 

"  Eiti  Bill-yet"  I  repeated,  automatically,  for  my 
thoughts  were  dwelling  more  upon  the  charming  quandary 
in  which  I  found  myself,  than  upon  his  half-good-natured, 
half-mocking  instructions :  "  Ein  Bill-yet,  firste — erste — 
it  is  of  no  use.  I  can't  say  it.  But " — here  a  brilliant 
idea  struck  me — "  if  you  would  write  it  out  for  me  on  a 
paper,  and  then  I  could  give  it  the  man :  he  would  surely 
know  what  it  meant." 

"  A  very  interesting  idea,  but  a  viva  voce  interview  is  so 
much  better." 

"  I  wonder  how  long  it  takes  to  walk  to  Elberthal ! " 
I  suggested,  darkly. 

"  Oh,  a  mere  trifle  of  a  walk.  You  might  do  it  in  four 
or  five  hours,  I  dare  say." 

I  bit  my  lips,  trying  not  to  cry. 


3  2  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

"Perhaps  we  might  make  some  other  arrangement," 
he  remarked.  "I  am  going  to  Elberthal  too." 

"  You  ?  Thank  heaven ! "  was  my  first  remark.  Then 
as  a  doubt  came  over  me:  "Then  why — why — " 

Here  I  stuck  fast,  unable  to  ask  why  he  had  said  so 
many  tormenting  things  to  me,  pretended  to  teach  me 
German  phrases,  and  so  on.  The  words  would  not  come 
out.  Meanwhile  he,  without  apparently  feeling  it  neces- 
sary to  explain  himself  upon  these  points,  went  on : 

"  Yes.  I  have  been  at  a  Probe  "  (not  having  the  faint- 
est idea  as  to  what  a  Probe  might  be,  and  not  liking  to 
ask,  I  held  my  peace  and  bowed  assentingly).  He  went 
on,  "And  I  was  delayed  a  little.  I  had  intended  to  go 
by  the  train  you  have  lost,  so  if  you  are  not  afraid  to 
trust  yourself  to  my  care  we  can  travel  together." 

"You — you  are  very  kind." 

"Then  you  are  not  afraid  ?  " 

"  I — oh  no !  I  should  like  it  very  much.  I  mean  I 
am  sure  it  would  be  very  nice." 

Feeling  that  my  social  powers  were  as  yet  in  a  very 
undeveloped  condition,  I  subsided  into  silence,  as  he 
went  on  : 

"  I  hope  your  friends  will  not  be  very  uneasy  ?  " 

"Oh  dear  no  !"  I  assured  him,  with  a  pious  conviction 
that  I  was  speaking  the  truth. 

"We  shall  arrive  at  Elberthal  about  8.30." 

I  scarcely  heard.  I  had  plunged  my  hand  into  my 
pocket,  and  found — a  hideous  conviction  crossed  my 
mind.  /  had  no  money  /  I  had  until  this  moment  to- 
tally forgotten  having  given  my  purse  to  Merrick  to  keep ; 
and  she,  as  pioneer  of  the  party,  naturally  had  all  our 
tickets  under  her  charge.  My  heart  almost  stopped  beat- 
ing. It  was  unheard  of,  horrible,  this  possibility  of  falling 
into  the  power  of  a  total,  utter  stranger — a  foreigner — 
a — heaven  only  knew  what !  Engrossed  with  this  pain- 
ful and  distressing  problem,  I  sat  silent,  and  with  eyes 
gloomily  cast  down. 

"One  thing  is  certain,"  he  remarked.  "We  do  not 
spend  three  hours  and  a  half  in  the  station.  /  want 
some  dinner.  A  four  hours'  Probe  is  apt  to  make  one  a 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


33 


little  hungry.     Come,  we  will  go  and  have  something  to 
eat." 

The  idea  had  evidently  come  to  him  as  a  species  of 
inspiration,  and  he  openly  rejoiced  in  it. 

"  I  am  not  hungry,"  said  I ;  but  I  was,  very.  I  knew 
it  now  that  the  idea  "dinner"  had  made  itself  conspicu- 
ous in  my  consciousness. 

"  Perhaps  you  think  not ;  but  you  are,  all  the  same," 
he  said.  "  Come  with  me,  Fraulein.  You  have  put 
yourself  into  my  hands ;  you  must  do  what  I  tell  you." 

I  followed  him  mechanically  out  of  the  station  and 
down  the  street,  and  I  tried  to  realize  that  instead  of 
being  with  Miss  Hallam  and  Merrick,  my  natural  and 
respectable  protectors,  safely  and  conventionally  plodding 
the  slow  way  in  the  slow  continental  train  to  the  slow 
continental  town,  I  was  parading  about  the  streets  of 
Koln  with  a  man  of  whose  very  existence  I  had  half  an 
hour  ago  been  ignorant ;  I  was  dependent,  too,  upon  him, 
and  him  alone,  for  my  safe  arrival  at  Elberthal.  And  I 
followed  him  unquestioningly,  now  and  then  telling  my- 
self, by  way  of  feeble  consolation,  that  he  was  a  gentle- 
man— he  certainly  was  a  gentleman — and  wishing  now 
and  then,  or  trying  to  wish,  with  my  usual  proper  feeling, 
that  it  had  been  some  nice  old  lady  with  whom  I  had 
fallen  in :  it  would  have  made  the  whole  adventure 
blameless,  and,  comparatively  speaking,  agreeable. 

We  went  along  a  street  and  came  to  an  hotel,  a  large 
building,  into  which  my  conductor  walked,  spoke  to  a 
waiter,  and  we  were  shown  into  the  restaurant,  full  of 
round  tables,  and  containing  some  half-dozen  parties  of 
people.  I  followed  with  stony  resignation.  It  was  the 
severest  trial  of  all,  this  coming  to  an  hotel  alone  with  a 
gentleman  in  broad  daylight.  I  caught  sight  of  a  reflec- 
tion in  a  mirror  of  a  tall,  pale  girl,  with  heavy,  tumbled 
auburn  hair,  a  brown  hat  which  suited  her,  and  a  severely 
simple  traveling-dress.  I  did  not  realize  until  I  had  gone 
past  that  it  was  my  own  reflection  which  I  had  seen. 

"  Suppose  we  sit  here,"  said  he,  going  to  a  table  in 
a  comparatively  secluded  window  recess,  partially  over- 
hung with  curtains. 
3 


34  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

"How  very  kind  and  considerate  of  him!"  thought  I. 

"Would  you  rather  have  wine  or  coffee,  Fraitlein?" 

Pulled  up  from  the  impulse  to  satisfy  my  really  keen 
hunger  by  the  recollection  of  my  "lack  of  gold,"  I  an- 
swered hastily : 

"  Nothing,  thank  you — really  nothing." 

"O  dock!  You  must  have  something,"  said  he,  smil- 
ing. "I  will  order  something.  Don't  trouble  about  it." 

"Don't  order  anything  for  me,"  said  I,  my  cheeks 
burning  again.  "  I  shall  not  eat  anything." 

"  If  you  do  not  eat,  you  will  be  ill.  Remember,  we  do 
not  get  to  Elberthal  before  eight,"  said  he.  "  Is  it  per- 
haps disagreeable  to  you  to  eat  in  the  saal?  If  you  like 
we  can  have  a  private  room." 

"It  is  not  that  at  all,"  I  replied;  and  seeing  that  he 
looked  surprised,  I  blurted  out  the  truth.  "I  have  no 
money.  I  gave  my  purse  to  Miss  Hallam's  maid  to  keep, 
and  she  has  taken  it  with  her." 

With  a  laugh,  in  which,  infectious  though  it  was,  I  was 
too  wretched  to  join : 

"Is  that  all  ?     Kellner!"  cried  he. 

An  obsequious  waiter  came  up,  smiled  sweetly  and 
meaningly  at  us,  received  some  orders  from  my  com- 
panion, and  disappeared. 

He  seated  himself  beside  me  at  the  little  round  table. 

"  He  will  bring  something  at  once,"  said  he,  smiling. 

I  sat  still.  I  was  not  happy,  and  yet  I  could  not  feel 
all  the  unhappiness  which  I  considered  appropriate  to  the 
circumstances. 

My  companion  took  up  a  Kolnische  Zeitung,  and 
glanced  over  the  advertisements,  while  I  looked  a  little 
stealthily  at  him,  and  for  the  first  time  took  in  more 
exactly  what  he  was  like,  and  grew  more  puzzled  with 
him  each  moment.  As  he  leaned  upon  the  table,  one 
slight,  long,  brown  hand  propping  his  head,  and  half  lost 
in  the  thick,  fine  brown  hair  which  waved  in  large,  ample 
waves  over  his  head,  there  was  an  indescribable  grace, 
ease,  and  negligent  beauty  in  the  attitude.  Move  as  he 
would,  let  him  assume  any  possible  or  impossible  attitude, 
there  was  still  the  same  grace,  half  careless,  yet  very 
dignified  in  the  position  he  took. 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


35 


All  his  lines  were  lines  of  beauty,  hut  beauty  which 
had  power  and  much  masculine  strength ;  nowhere  did  it 
degenerate  into  flaccidity,  nowhere  lose  strength  in  grace. 
His  hair  was  long,  and  I  wondered  at  it.  My  small 
experience  in  our  delightful  home  and  village  circle  had 
not  acquainted  me  with  that  flowing  style ;  the  young 
men  of  my  acquaintance  cropped  their  hair  close  to  the 
scalp,  and  called  it  the  modern  style  of  hair-dressing.  It 
had  always  looked  to  me  more  like  hair-undressing.  This 
hair  fell  in  a  heavy  wave  over  his  forehead,  and  he  had 
the  habit,  common  to  people  whose  hair  does  so,  of  lift- 
ing his  head  suddenly  and  shaking  back  the  offending 
lock.  His  forehead  was  broad,  open,  pleasant,  yet  grave. 
Eyes,  as  I  had  seen,  very  dark,  and  with  lashes  and 
brows  which  enhanced  the  contrast  to  a  complexion  at 
once  fair  and  pale.  A  light  mustache,  curving  almost 
straight  across  the  face,  gave  a  smiling  expression  to  lips 
which  were  otherwise  grave,  calm,  almost  sad.  In  fact, 
looking  nearer,  I  thought  he  did  look  sad;  and  though 
when  he  looked  at  me  his  eyes  were  so  piercing,  yet  in 
repose  they  had  a  certain  distant,  abstracted  expression, 
not  far  removed  from  absolute  mournfulness.  Broad- 
shouldered,  long-armed,  with  a  physique  in  every  respect 
splendid,  he  was  yet  very  distinctly  removed  from  the 
mere  handsome  animal  which  I  believe  enjoys  a  distin- 
guished popularity  in  the  latter-day  romance. 

Now,  as  his  eyes  were  cast  upon  the  paper,  I  perceived 
lines  upon  his  forehead,  signs  about  the  mouth  and  eyes 
telling  of  a  firm,  not  to  say  imperious  disposition;  a 
certain  curve  of  the  lips,  and  of  the  full,  yet  delicate 
nostril,  told  of  pride  both  strong  and  high.  He  was 
older  than  I  had  thought,  his  face  sparer;  there  were 
certain  hollows  in  the  cheeks,  two  lines  between  the  eye- 
brows, a  sharpness,  or  rather  somewhat  worn  appearance 
of  the  features,  which  told  of  a  mental  life,  keen  and  con- 
suming. Altogether,  an  older,  more  intellectual,  more 
imposing  face  than  I  had  at  first  thought ;  less  that  of  a 
young  and  handsome  man,  more  that  of  a  thinker  and. 
student.  Lastly,  a  cool  ease,  deliberation,  and  leisureli- 
ness  about  all  he  said  and  did,  hinted  at  his  being  a 


36  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

person  in  authority,  accustomed  to  give  orders  and  see 
them  obeyed  without  question.  I  decided  that  he  was, 
in  our  graceful  home  phrase,  "master  in  his  own  house." 

His  clothing  was  unremarkable — gray  summer  clothes, 
such  as  any  gentleman  or  any  shopkeeper  might  wear; 
only  in  scanning  him  no  thought  of  shopkeeper  came  into 
my  mind.  His  cap  lay  upon  the  table  beside  us,  one 
of  the  little  gray  Studcntenmiltzen  with  which  Elberthal 
soon  made  me  familiar,  but  which  struck  me  then  as  odd 
and  outlandish.  I  grew  every  moment  more  interested 
in  my  scrutiny  of  this,  to  me,  fascinating  and  remarkable 
face,  and  had  forgotten  to  try  to  look  as  if  I  were  not 
looking,  when  he  looked  up  suddenly,  without  warning, 
with  those  bright,  formidable  eyes,  which  had  already 
made  me  feel  somewhat  shy  as  I  caught  them  fixed  upon 
me. 

"JVun,  have  you  decided  ?  "  he  asked,  with  a  humorous 
look  in  his  eyes,  which  he  was  too  polite  to  allow  to  de- 
velop itself  into  a  smile. 

"  I — oh,  I  beg  your  pardon  !  " 

"You  do  not  want  to,"  he  answered,  in  imperfect 
idiom.  "  But  have  you  decided  ?  " 

"  Decided  what  ?  " 

"Whether  I  am  to  be  trusted  ?  " 

"I  have  not  been  thinking  about  that,"  I  said,  un- 
comfortably, when  to  my  relief  the  appearance  of  the 
waiter  with  preparations  for  a  meal  savred  me  further  re- 
ply. 

"  What  shall  we  call  this  meal  ? "  he  asked,  as  the 
waiter  disappeared  to  bring  the  repast  to  the  table.  "It 
is  too  late  for  the  Miitagesscn,  and  too  early  for  the 
Abendbrod.  Can  you  suggest  a  name  ?  " 

"At  home  it  would  be  just  the  time  for  afternoon  tea." 

"Ah,  yes  !  Your  English  afternoon  tea  is  very — "  He 
stopped  suddenly. 

"  Have  you  been  in  England  ?  " 

"This  is  just  the  time  at  which  we  drink  our  afternoon 
coffee  in  Germany,"  said  he,  looking  at  me  with  his  im- 
penetrably bright  eyes,  just  as  if  he  had  never  heard  me. 
"  When  the  ladies  ail  meet  together  to  talk  scan — O, 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


37 


behiite  /  What  am  I  saying  ? — to  consult  seriously  upon 
important  topics,  you  know.  There  are  some  low-minded 
persons  who  call  the  whole  ceremony  a  Klatsch — 
Kaffeeklatsch.  I  am  sure  you  and  I  shall  talk  seriously 
upon  important  subjects,  so  suppose  we  call  this  our 
Kaffeeklatsch,  although  we  have  no  coffee  to  it." 

"  Oh  yes,  if  you  like." 

He  put  a  piece  of  cutlet  upon  my  plate,  and  poured 
yellow  wine  into  my  glass.  Endeavoring  to  conduct  my- 
self with  the  dignity  of  a  grown-up  person  and  to  show 
that  I  did  know  something,  I  inquired  if  the  wine  were 
hock. 

He  smiled.  "  It  is  not  Hochheimer — not  Rheinwein 
at  all — he — no,  it,  you  say — it  is  Moselle  wine — '  Doctor'." 

"  Doctor  ?  " 

"  Doctorbergcr ;  I  do  not  know  why  so  called.  And  a 
very  good  fellow  too — so  say  all  his  friends,  of  whom  I 
am  a  warm  one.  Try  him." 

I  complied  with  the  admonition,  and  was  able  to  say 
that  I  liked  Doctorberger.  We  ate  and  drank  in  silence 
for  some  little  time,  and  I  found  that  I  was  very  hungry. 
I  also  found  that  I  could  not  conjure  up  any  real  feeling 
of  discomfort  or  uneasiness,  and  that  the  prospective 
scolding  from  Miss  Hallam  had  no  terrors  in  it  for  me. 
Never  had  I  felt  so  serene  in  mind,  never  more  at  ease  in 
every  way,  than  now.  I  felt  that  this  was  wrong — 
Bohemian,  irregular,  and  not  respectable,  and  tried  to  get 
up  a  little  unhappiness  about  something.  The  only  thing 
that  I  could  think  of  was : 

"  I  am  afraid  I  am  taking  up  your  time.  Perhaps  you 
had  some  business  which  you  were  going  to  when  you 
met  me." 

"  My  business,  when  I  met  you,  was  to  catch  the  train 
to  Elberthal,  which  was  already  gone,  as  you  know.  I 
shall  not  be  able  to  fulfill  my  engagements  for  to-night,  so 
it  really  does  not  matter.  I  am  enjoying  myself  very 
much." 

"I  am  very  glad  I  did  meet  you,"  said  I.  growing  more 
re-assured  as  I  found  that  my  companion,  though  exceed- 
ingly polite  and  attentive  to  me,  did  not  ask  a  question  as 


38  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

to  my  business,  my  traveling  companions,  my  intended 
stay  or  object  in  Elberthal — that  he  behaved  as  a  perfect 
gentleman — one  who  is  a  gentleman  throughout,  in 
thought  as  well  as  in  deed.  He  did  not  even  ask  me 
how  it  was  that  my  friends  had  not  waited  a  little  for  me, 
though  he  must  have  wondered  why  two  people  left  a 
young  girl,  moneyless  and  ignorant,  to  find  her  way  after 
them  as  well  as  she  could.  He  took  me  as  he  found  me, 
and  treated  me  as  if  I  had  been  the  most  distinguished 
and  important  of  persons.  But  at  my  last  remark  he 
said,  with  the  same  odd  smile  which  took  me  by  surprise 
every  time  I  saw  it : 

"The  pleasure  is  certainly  not  all  on  your  side,  me  in 
Fraulcin.  I  suppose  from  that  you  have  decided  that  I 
am  to  be  trusted  ?  " 

I  stammered  out  something  to  the  effect  that  "  I  should 
be  very  ungrateful  were  I  not  satisfied  with — with  such  a 
a — "  I  stopped,  looking  at  him  in  some  confusion.  I  saw 
a  sudden  look  flash  into  his  eyes  and  over  his  face.  It 
was  gone  again  in  a  moment — so  fleeting  that  I  had 
scarce  time  to  mark  it,  but  it  opened  up  a  crowd  of  strange 
new  impressions  to  me,  and  while  I  could  no  more  have 
said  what  it  was  like  the  moment  it  Avas  gone,  yet  it  left 
two  desires  almost  equally  strong  in  me — I  wished  in  one 
and  the  same  moment  that  I  had  for  my  own  peace  of 
mind  never  seen  him — and  that  I  might  never  lose  sight 
of  him  again :  to  fly  from  that  look,  to  remain  and  en- 
counter it.  The  tell-tale  mirror  in  the  corner  caught  my 
eye.  At  home  they  used  sometimes  to  call  me,  partly  in 
mockery,  partly  in  earnest,  "Bonny  May."  The  sobriquet 
had  hitherto  been  a  mere  shadow,  a  meaningless  thing,  to 
me.  I  liked  to  hear  it,  but  had  never  paused  to  consider 
whether  it  were  appropriate  or  not.  In  my  brief  inter- 
course with  my  venerable  suitor,  Sir  Peter,  I  had  come  a 
little  nearer  to  being  actively  aware  that  I  was  good-look- 
ing, only  to  anathematize  the  fact.  Now,  catching  sight 
of  my  reflection  in  the  mirror,  I  wondered  eagerly 
whether  I  really  were  fair,  and  wished  I  had  some  higher 
authority  to  think  so  than  the  casual  jokes  of  my  sisters. 
It  did  not  add  to  my  presence  of  mind  to  find  that  my 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


39 


involuntary  glance  to  the  mirror  had  been  intercepted 
— perhaps  even  my  motive  guessed  at — he  appeared  to 
have  a  frightfully  keen  instinct. 

"  Have  you  seen  the  Dom  ?  "  was  all  he  said ;  but  it 
seemed  somehow  to  give  a  point  to  what  had  passed. 

"The  Dom — what  is  the  Dom  ?  " 

"The  KolnerDomj  the  cathedral." 

"  Oh  no !  Oh,  should  we  have  time  to  see  it  ?  "  I  ex- 
claimed. "  How  I  should  like  it !  " 

"  Certainly.     It  is  close  at  hand.     Suppose  we  go  now." 

Gladly  I  rose,  as  he  did.  One  of  my  most  ardent 
desires  was  about  to  be  fulfilled — not  so  properly  and 
correctly  as  might  have  been  desired,  but — yes,  certainly 
more  pleasantly  than  under  the  escort  of  Miss  Hallam, 
grumbling  at  every  groschen  she  had  to  unearth  in  pay- 
ment. 

Before  we  could  leave  our  seclusion  there  came  up  to 
us  a  young  man  who  had  looked  at  us  through  the  door 
and  paused.  I  had  seen  him ;  had  seen  how  he  said 
something  to  a  companion,  and  how  the  companion  shook 
his  head  dissentingly.  The  first  speaker  came  up  to  us, 
eyed  me  with  a  look  of  curiosity,  and  turning  to  my  pro- 
tector with  a  benevolent  smile,  said : 

"Eugen  Courvoisier!     Also  hatte  ich  dock  Recht  /" 

I  caught  the  name.  The  rest  was  of  course  lost  upon 
me.  Eugene  Courvoisier?  I  liked  it,  as  I  liked  him, 
and  in  my  young  enthusiasm  decided  that  it  was  a  very 
good  name.  The  new-comer,  who  seemed  as  if  much 
pleased  with  some  discovery,  and  entertained  at  the  same 
time,  addressed  some  questions  to  Courvoisier,  who 
answered  him  tranquilly  but  in  a  tone  of  voice  which  was 
very  freezing ;  and  then  the  other,  with  a  few  words  and 
an  unbelieving  kind  of  laugh,  said  something  about  a 
schone  Geschichte,  and,  with  another  look  at  me,  went  out 
of  the  coffee-room  again. 

We  went  out  of  the  hotel,  up  the  street  to  the  cathedral. 
It  was  the  first  cathedral  I  had  ever  been  in.  The  shock 
and  the  wonder  of  its  grandeur  took  my  breath  away. 
When  I  had  found  courage  to  look  round,  and  up  at  those 
awful  vaults  the  roofs,  I  could  not  help  crying  a  little. 


4o 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


The  vastness,  coolness,  stillness  and  splendor  crushed  me 
— the  great  solemn  rays  of  sunlight  coming  in  slanting 
glory  through  the  windows — the  huge  height — the  im- 
pression it  gave  of  greatness,  and  of  a  religious  devotion 
to  which  we  shall  never  again  attain;  of  pure,  noble  hearts, 
and  patient,  skillful  hands,  toiling,  but  in  a  spirit  that  made 
the  toil  a  holy  prayer — carrying  out  the  builder's  thought 
— great  thought  greatly  executed — all  was  too  much  for 
me,  the  more  so  in  that  while  I  felt  it  all  I  could  not  an- 
alyze it.  It  was  a  dim,  indefinite  wonder.  I  tried  stealth- 
ily and  in  shame  to  conceal  my  tears,  looking  surreptitious- 
ly at  him  in  fear  lest  he  should  be  laughing  at  me  again. 
But  he  was  not.  He  held  his  cap  in  his  hand — was  look- 
ing with  those  strange  brilliant  eyes  fixedly  towards  the  high 
altar,  and  there  was  some  expression  upon  his  face  which  I 
could  not  analyze — not  the  expression  of  a  person  for 
whom  such  a  scene  has  grown  or  can  grow  common  by 
custom — not  the  expression  of  a  sight-seer  who  feels  that 
he  must  admire;  not  my  own  first  astonishment.  At  least 
he  felt  it — the  whole  grand  scene,  and  I  instinctively  and 
instantly  felt  more  at  home  with  him  than  I  had  done 
before. 

"Oh!"  said  I,  at  last,  "if  one  could  stay  here  forever, 
what  would  one  grow  to?" 

He  smiled  a  little. 

"  You  find  it  beautiful  ?  " 

"It  is  the  first  I  have  seen.  It  is  much  more  than 
beautiful." 

"The  first  you  have  seen?  Ah,  well,  I  might  have 
guessed  that." 

"Why?  do  I  look  so  countrified?"  I  inquired,  with 
real  interest,  as  I  let  him  lead  me  to  a  little  side  bench, 
and  place  himself  beside  me.  I  asked  in  all  good  faith. 
About  him  there  seemed  such  a  cosmopolitan  ease,  that  I 
felt  sure  he  could  tell  me  correctly  how  I  struck  other 
people — if  he  would. 

"Countrified — what  is  that?" 

"Oh,  we  say  it  when  people  are  like  me — have  never 
seen  anything  but  their  own  little  village,  and  never  had 
any  adventures,  and — " 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  4! 

"Get  lost  at  railway  stations,  rind  so  welter.  I  don't 
know  enough  of  the  meaning  of  'countrified'  to  be  able 
to  say  if  you  are  so,  but  it  is  easy  to  see  that  you — have 
not  had  much  contention  with  the  powers  that  be." 

"  Oh,  I  shall  not  be  stupid  long,"  said  I,  comfortably. 
"I  am  not  going  back  home  again." 

"So!"  He  did  not  ask  more,  but  I  saw  that  he  listen- 
ed, and  proceeded  communicatively: 

"  Never.  I  have — not  quarreled  with  them  exactly,  but 
had  a  disagreement,  because — because — " 

"Because?" 

"They  wanted  me  to — I  mean,  an  old  gentleman — no, 
I  mean — " 

"  An  old  gentleman  wanted  you  to  marry  him,  and  you 
would  not,"  said  he,  with  an  odd 'twinkle  in  his  eyes. 

"  Why,  how  can  you  know  ?  " 

"  I  think,  because  you  told  me.  But  I  will  forget  it  if 
you  wish." 

"Oh  no!  It  is  quite  true.  Perhaps  I  ought  to  have 
married  him." 

"  Ought!'''     He  looked  startled. 

"Yes.  Adelaide — my  eldest  sister — said  so.  But  it 
was  no  use.  I  was  very  unhappy,  and  Miss  Hallam,  who 
is  Sir  Peter's  deadly  enemy — he  is  the  old  gentleman,  you 
know — was  very  kind  to  me.  She  invited  me  to  come 
with  her  to  Germany,  and  promised  to  let  me  have  sing- 
ing lessons." 

"  Singing  lessons  ?  " 

I  nodded.  "Yes;  and  then  when  I  know  a  good  deal 
more  about  singing,  I  shall  go  back  again  and  give  lessons. 
I  shall  support  myself,  and  then  no  one  will  have  the 
right  to  want  to  make  me  marry  Sir  Peter." 

"Du  lieber  Hiinmel .'"  he  ejaculated,  half  to  himself. 
"  Are  you  very  musical,  then  ?  " 

'  I  can  sing,"  said  I.    "  Only  I  want  some  more  training." 
'And  you  will  go  back  all  alone  and  try  to  give  lessons  ?  " 
'  I  shall  not  only  //j,  I  shall  do  it,"  I  corrected  him. 
'And  do  you  like  the  prospect?" 
'If  I  can  get  enough  money  to  live  upon,  I  shall  like 
it  very  much.     It  will  be  better  than  living  at  home  and 
being  bothered." 


42  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

"I  will  tell  you  what  you  should  do  before  you  begin 
your  career,"  said  he,  looking  at  me  with  an  expression 
half  wondering,  half  pitying. 

"  What?     If  you  could  tell  me  anything." 

"  Preserve  your  voice,  by  all  means,  and  get  as  much  in- 
struction as  you  can;  but  change  all  that  waving  hair, 
and  make  it  into  unobjectionable  smooth  bands  of  no  par- 
ticular color.  Get  a  mask  to  wear  over  your  face,  which 
is  too  expressive;  do  something  to  your  eyes  to  alter 
their—" 

The  expression  then  visible  in  the  said  eyes  seemed  to 
strike  him,  for  he  suddenly  stopped,  and  with  a  slight 
laugh,  said: 

"  Ach,  was  rede  ich  fur  dummes  Zeug!  Excuse  me, 
mcin  Frdulein" 

"But,"  I  interrupted,  earnestly,  "what  do  you  mean? 
Do  you  think  my  appearance  will  be  a  disadvantage  to 
me?" 

Scarcely  had  I  said  the  words  than  I  knew  how  intense- 
ly stupid  they  were,  how  very  much  they  must  appear  as 
if  I  were  openly  and  impudently  fishing  for  compliments. 
How  grateful  I  felt  when  he  answered,  with  a  grave  di- 
rectness, which  had  nothing  but  the  highest  compliment 
in  it — that  of  crediting  me  with  right  motives : 

"Mcin  Frdulein,  how  can  I  tell  ?  It  is  only  that  I  knew 
some  one,  rather  older  than  you,  and  very  beautiful,  who 
had  such  a  pursuit.  Her  name  was  Corona  Heidelber- 
ger,  and  her  story  was  a  sad  one." 

"  Tell  it  me,"  I  besought. 

"  Well,  no,  I  think  not.  But — sometimes  I  have  a  lit- 
tle gift  of  foresight,  and  that  tells  me  that  you  will  not  be- 
come what  you  at  present  think.  You  will  be  much  hap- 
pier and  more  fortunate." 

"I  wonder  if  it  would  be  nice  to  be  a  great  operatic 
singer,"  I  speculated. 

"  O,  bchiite !  don't  think  of  it!"  he  exclaimed,  starting 
up  and  moving  restlessly.  "You  do  not  know — you  an 
opera  singer — " 

He  was  interrupted.  There  suddenly  filled  the  air  a 
sound  of  deep,  heavenly  melody,  which  swept  solemnly 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


43 


adown  the  aisles,  and  filled  with  its  melodious  thunder 
every  corner  of  the  great  building.  I  listened  with  my 
face  upraised,  my  lips  parted.  It  was  the  organ,  and 
presently,  after  a  wonderful  melody,  which  set  my  heart 
beating — a  melody  full  of  the  most  witchingly  sweet  high 
notes,  and  a  breadth  and  grandeur  of  low  ones  such  as  only 
two  composers  have  ever  attained  to,  a  voice — a  single 
woman's  voice — was  upraised.  She  was  invisible,  and 
she  sang  till  the  very  sunshine  seemed  turned  to  melody, 
and  all  the  world  was  music — the  greatest,  most  glorious 
of  earthly  things. 

"Blute  nur,  liebes  Herz  ! 
Ach,  ein  Kind  das  du  erzogen, 
Das  an  deiner  Brust  gesogen, 
Drohet  den  Pfleger  zu  ermorden 
Denn  es  ist  zur  Schlange  worden." 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  I  asked  below  my  breath,  as  it  ceased. 

He  had  shaded  his  face  with  his  hand,  but  turned  to 
me  as  I  spoke,  a  certain  half-suppressed  enthusiasm  in  his 
eyes. 

"Be  thankful  for  your  first  introduction  to  German  mu- 
sic," said  he,  "and  that  it  was  grand  old  Johann  Sebastian 
Bach  whom  you  heard.  That  is  one  of  the  soprano  solos 
in  the  Passions-musik — that  is  music." 

There  was  more  music.  A  tenor  voice  was  singing  a 
recitative  now,  and  that  exquisite  accompaniment,  with  a 
sort  of  joyful  solemnity,  still  continued.  Every  now  and 
then,  shrill,  high,  and  clear,  penetrated  a  chorus  of  boys' 
voices.  I,  outer  barbarian  that  I  was,  barely  knew  the 
name  of  Bach  and  his  Matthdus  Passion,  so  in  the  pauses 
my  companion  told  me  by  snatches  what  it  was  about. 
There  was  not  much  of  it.  After  a  few  solos  and  recita- 
tives, they  tried  one  or  two  of  the  choruses.  I  sat  in  si- 
lence, feeling  a  new  world  breaking  in  glory  around  me, 
till  that  tremendous  chorus  came;  the  organ  notes  swelled 
out,  the  tenor  voice  sang,  "  Whom  will  ye  that  I  give  un- 
to you?"  and  the  answer  came,  crashing  down  in  one 
tremendous  clap,  "  Barrabam ! "  And  such  music  was  in 
the  world,  had  been  sung  for  years,  and  I  had  not  heard 
it.  Verily,  there  may  be  revelations  and  things  new  under 
the  sun  every  day. 


44  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

I  had  forgotten  even-thing  outside  the  cathedral — every 
person  but  the  one  at  my  side.  It  was  he  who  roused 
first,  looking  at  his  watch  and  exclaiming: 

"  Hcrrgott!  We  must  go  to  the  station,  fraulcin,  if  we 
wish  to  catch  the  train." 

And  yet  I  did  not  think  he  seemed  very  eager  to  catch 
it,  as  we  went  through  the  busy  streets  in  the  warmth 
of  evening,  for  it  was  hot,  as  it  sometimes  is  in  pleasant 
April,  before  the  withering  east  winds  of  the  "merry 
month"  have  come  to  devastate  the  land  and  sweep 
sickly  people  off  the  face  of  the  earth.  We  went  slowly 
through  the  moving  crowds  to  the  station,  into  the 
Wartesaal,  where  he  left  me  while  he  went  to  take  my 
ticket.  I  sat  in  the  same  corner  of  the  same  sofa  as 
before,  and  to  this  day  I  could  enumerate  every  object  in 
that  Wartesaal. 

It  was  after  seven  o'clock.  The  outside  sky  was  still 
bright,  but  it  was  dusk  in  the  waiting-room  and  under  the 
shadow  of  the  station.  When  "  Eugen  Courvoisier " 
came  in  again,  I  did  not  see  his  features  so  distinctly  as 
lately  in  the  cathedral.  Again  he  sat  "down  beside  me, 
silently  this  time.  I  glanced  at  his  face,  and  a  strange, 
sharp,  pungent  thrill  shot  through  me.  The  companion 
of  a  few  hours — was  he  only  that  ? 

"Are  you  very  tired?"  he  asked,  gently,  after  a  long 
pause.  "I  think  the  train  will  not  be  very  long  now." 

Even  as  he  spoke,  clang,  clang,  went  the  bell,  and  for 
the  second  time  that  day  I  went  towards  the  train  for 
Elberthal.  This  time  no  wrong  turning,  no  mistake. 
Courvoisier  put  me  into  an  empty  compartment,  and 
followed  me,  said  something  to  a  guard  who  went  past, 
of  which  I  could  only  distinguish  the  word  allcin  ;  but 
as  no  one  disturbed  our  privacy,  I  concluded  that  Ger- 
man railway  guards,  like  English  ones,  are  mortal. 

After  debating  within  myself  for  some  time,  I  screwed 
up  my  courage  and  began  : 

"  Mr.  Courvoisier — your  name  is  Courvoisier,  is  it  not  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  Will  you  please  tell  me  how  much  money  you  have 
spent  for  me  to-day  ?  " 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


45 


"  How  much  money  ? "  he  asked,  looking  at  me  with 
a  provoking  smile. 

The  train  was  rumbling  slowly  along,  the  night  darken- 
ing down.  We  sat  by  an  open  window,  and  I  looked 
through  it  at  the  gray,  Dutch-like  landscape,  the  falling 
dusk,  the  poplars  that  seemed  sedately  marching  along 
with  us. 

"  Why  do  you  want  to  know  how  much  ? "  he  de- 
manded. 

"  Because  I  shall  want  to  pay  you,  of  course,  when  1 
get  my  purse,"  said  I.  "And  if  you  will  kindly  tell  me 
your  address,  too — but  how  much  money  did  you  spend?" 

He  looked  at  me,  seemed  about  to  laugh  off  the  ques- 
tion, and  then  said : 

"I  believe  it  was  about  three  thalers  ten  groschen,  but 
I  am  not  at  all  sure.  I  cannot  tell  till  I  do  my  ac- 
counts." 

"  Oh  dear!"  said  I. 

"Suppose  I  let  you  know  how  much  it  was,"  he  went 
on,  with  a  gravity  which  forced  conviction  upon  me. 

"  Perhaps  that  would  be  the  best,"  I  agreed.  "  But  I 
hope  you  will  make  out  your  accounts  soon." 

"Oh,  very  soon.     And  where  shall  I  send  my  bill  to  ?" 

Feeling  as  if  there  were  something  not  quite  as  it 
should  be  in  the  whole  proceeding,  I  looked  very  ear- 
nestly at  him,  but  could  find  nothing  but  the  most  perfect 
gravity  in  his  expression.  I  repeated  my  address  and 
name  slowly  and  distinctly,  as  befitted  so  business-like 
a  transaction,  and  he  wrote  them  down  in  a  little  book. 

"And  you  will  not  forget,"  said  I,  "to  give  me  your 
address  when  you  let  me  know  what  I  owe  you." 

"  Certainly — when  I  let  you  know  what  you  owe  me," 
he  replied,  putting  the  little  book  into  his  pocket  again. 

"  I  wonder  if  any  one  will  come  to  meet  me,"  I  specu- 
lated, my  mind  more  at  ease  in  consequence  of  the 
business-like  demeanor  of  my  companion. 

"Possibly,"  said  he,  with  an  ambiguous  half  smile, 
which  I  did  not  understand. 

"  Miss  Hallam — the  lady  I  came  with — is  almost  blind. 
Her  maid  had  to  look  after  her,  and  I  suppose  that  is 
why  they  did  not  wait  for  me,"  said  I. 


46  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

"It  must  have  been  a  very  strong  reason,  at  any  rate," 
he  said,  gravely. 

Now  the  train  rolled  into  the  Elberthal  station.  There 
were  lights,  movement,  a  storm  of  people  all  gabbling 
away  in  a  foreign  tongue.  I  looked  out.  No  face  of 
any  one  I  knew.  Courvoisier  sprang  down  and  helped 
me  out. 

"  Now  I  will  put  you  into  a  Droschkc"  said  he,  leading 
the  way  to  where  they  stood  outside  the  station. 

"  Alleestrasse,  thirty-nine,"  he  said  to  the  man. 

"  Stop  one  moment,"  cried  I,  leaning  eagerly  out.  At 
that  moment  a  tall,  dark  girl  passed  us,  going  slowly 
towards  the  gates.  She  almost  paused  as  she  saw  us. 
She  was  looking  at  my  companion ;  I  did  not  see  her 
face,  and  was  only  conscious  of  her  as  coming  between 
me  and  him,  and  so  annoying  me. 

"Please  let  me  thank  you,"  I  continued.  "You  have 
been  so  kind,  so  very  kind — " 

"  O,  bitte  sehr !  It  was  so  kind  in  you  to  get  lost  ex- 
actly when  and  where  you  did,"  said  he,  smiling.  "  Adieu, 
man  Franldn"  he  added,  making  a  sign  to  the  coach- 
man, who  drove  off. 

I  saw  him  no  more.  "Eugen  Courvoisier" — I  kept 
repeating  the  name  to  myself,  as  if  I  were  in  the  very 
least  danger  of  forgetting  it — "  Eugen  Courvoisier."  Now 
that  I  had  parted  from  him  I  was  quite  clear  as  to  my 
own  feelings.  I  would  have  given  all  I  was  worth — not 
much,  truly — to  see  him  for  one  moment  again. 

Along  a  lighted  street  with  houses  on  one  side,  a 
gleaming  shine  of  water  on  the  other,  and  trees  on  both, 
down  a  cross  way,  then  into  another  street,  very  wide, 
and  gaily  lighted,  in  the  midst  of  which  was  an  avenue. 

We  stopped  with  a  rattle  before  a  house  loor,  and  I 
read,  by  the  light  of  the  lamp  that  hung  over  it,  "39." 


CHAPTER  II. 

ANNA   SARTORIUS. 

I  WAS  expected.  That  was  very  evident.  An  excited- 
looking  Dicnstmddchen  opened  the  door,  and  on  seeing 
me,  greeted  me  as  if  I  had  been  an  old  friend.  I  was 
presently  rescued  by  Merrick,  also  looking  agitated. 

"Ho,  Miss  Wedderburn,  at  last  you  are  here!  How 
Miss  Hallam  have  worried,  to  be  sure." 

"I  could  not  help  it,  I'm  very  sorry,"  said  I,  following 
her  up-stairs — up  a  great  many  flights  of  stairs,  as  it 
seemed  to  me,  till  she  ushered  me  into  a  sitting-room 
where  I  found  Miss  Hallam. 

"Thank  heaven,  child!  you  are  here  at  last.  I  was 
beginning  to  think  that  if  you  did  not  come  by  this  train, 
I  must  send  some  one  to  Koln  to  look  after  you." 

"  By  this  train ! "  I  repeated,  blankly.  "  Miss  Hallam 
— what — do  you  mean  ?  There  has  been  no  other  train." 

"Two  :  there  was  one  at  four  and  one  at  six.  I  cannot 
tell  you  how  uneasy  I  have  been  at  your  non-appearance." 

"Then — then — "  I  stammered,  growing  hot  all  over. 
"Oh,  how  horrible.'" 

"What  is  horrible?"  she  demanded.  "And  you  must 
be  starving.  Merrick,  go  and  see  about  something  to  eat 
for  Miss  Wedderburn.  Now,"  she  added,  as  her  maid 
left  the  room,  "  tell  me  what  you  have  been  doing." 

I  told  her  everything,  concealing  nothing. 

"  Most  annoying ! "  she  remarked.  "A  gentleman,  you 
say.  My  dear  child,  no  gentleman  would  have  done 
anything  of  the  kind.  I  am  very  sorry  for  it  all." 


48  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

"Miss  Hallam,"  I  implored,  almost  in  tears,  "please 
do  not  tell  any  one  what  has  happened  to  me.  I  will 
never  be  such  a  fool  again.  I  know  now — and  you  may 
trust  me.  But  do  not  let  any  one  know  how — stupid  I 
have  been.  I  told  you  I  was  stupid — I  told  you  several 
times.  I  am  sure  you  must  remember." 

"Oh  yes,  I  remember.     We  will  say  no  more  about  it." 

"  And  the  gray  shawl,"  said  I. 

"  Merrick  had  it." 

I  lifted  my  hands  and  shrugged  my  shoulders.  "Just 
my  luck,"  I  murmured,  resignedly,  as  Merrick  came  in 
with  a  tray. 

Miss  Hallam,  I  noticed,  continued  to  regard  me  now 
and  then  as  I  ate  with  but  small  appetite.  I  was  too 
excited  by  what  had  passed,  and  by  what  I  had  just 
heard,  to  be  hungry.  I  thought  it  kind,  merciful,  humane 
in  her  to  promise  to  keep  my  secret  and  not  expose  my 
ignorance  and  stupidity  to  strangers. 

"It  is  evident,"  she  remarked,  "that  you  must  at  once 
Degin  to  learn  German,  and  then  if  you  do  get  lost  at  a 
railway  station  again,  you  will  be  able  to  ask  your  way." 

Merrick  shook  her  head  with  an  inexpressibly  bitter 
smile. 

"I'd  defy  any  one  to  learn  this  'ere  language,  ma'am. 
They  call  an  accident  a  Ungli'ick  :  if  any  one  could  tell  me 
what  that  means,  I'd  thank  them,  that's  all." 

"  Don't  express  your  opinions,  Merrick,  unless  you 
wish  to  seem  deficient  in  understanding;  but  go  and  see 
that  Miss  Wedderburn  has  everything  she  wants — or 
rather  everything  that  can  be  got — in  her  room.  She  is 
tired,  and  shall  go  to  bed." 

I  was  only  too  glad  to  comply  with  this  mandate,  but 
it  was  long  ere  I  slept.  I  kept  hearing  the  organ  in  the 
cathedral,  and  that  voice  of  the  invisible  singer — seeing 
the  face  beside  me,  and  hearing  the  words,  "Then  you 
have  decided  that  I  am  to  be  trusted  ?  " 

"And  he  was  deceiving  me  all  the  time!  "  I  thought, 
mournful]}-. 

I  breakfasted  by  myself  the  following  morning,  in  a 
room  called  the  Spcisesaal.  I  found  I  was  late.  When 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


49 


I  came  into  the  room,  about  nine  o'clock,  there  was  no 
one  but  myself  to  be  seen.  There  was  a  long  table  with 
a  white  cloth  upon  it,  and  rows  of  the  thickest  cups  and 
saucers  it  had  ever  been  my  fate  to  see,  with  distinct 
evidences  that  the  chief  part  of  the  company  had  already 
breakfasted.  Baskets  full  of  Brodchen  and  pots  of  butter, 
a  long  india-rubber  pipe  coming  from  the  gas  to  light  a 
Theemaschine — lots  of  cane-bottomed  chairs,  an  open 
piano,  two  cages  with  canaries  in  them ;  the  kettle  gently 
simmering  above  the  gas-flame;  for  the  rest,  silence  and 
solitude. 

I  sat  down,  having  found  a  clean  cup  and  plate,  and 
glanced  timidly  at  the  Theemaschine,  not  daring  to  cope 
with  its  mysteries,  until  my  doubts  were  relieved  by  the 
entrance  of  a  young  person  with  a  trim  little  figure,  a 
coquettishly  cut  and  elaborately  braided  apron,  and  a 
white  frilled  Morgenhaube  upon  her  hair,  surmounting  her 
round,  heavenward-aspiring  visage. 

"  Giiten  morgen,  Fraulein"  she  said,  as  she  marched  up 
to  the  darkly  mysterious  Theemaschine  and  began  deftly 
to  prepare  coffee  for  me,  and  to  push  the  Brodchen 
towards  me.  She  began  to  talk  to  me  in  broken  English, 
which  was  very  pretty,  and  while  I  ate  and  drank,  she 
industriously  scraped  little  white  roots  at  the  same  table. 
She  told  me  she  was  Clara,  the  niece  of  Frau  Steinmann, 
and  that  she  was  very  glad  to  see  me,  but  was  very  sorry 
I  had  had  so  long  to  wait  in  Koln,  yesterday.  She  liked 
my  dress,  and  was  it  ccht  Englisch — also,  how  much  did 
it  cost  ? 

She  was  a  cheery  little  person,  and  I  liked  her.  She 
seemed  to  like  me  too,  and  repeatedly  said  she  was  glad 
I  had  come.  She  liked  dancing,  she  said.  Did  I  ?  And 
she  had  lately  danced  at  a  ball  with  some  one  who 
danced  so  well — aber,  quite  indescribably  well.  His 
name  was  Karl  Linders,  and  he  was,  ach !  really  a  re- 
markable person.  A  bright  blush,  and  a  little  sigh,  ac- 
companied the  remark.  Our  eyes  met,  and  from  that 
moment  Clara  and  I  were  very  good  friends. 

I  went  up-stairs  again,  and  found  that  Miss  Hallam 
proposed,  during  the  forenoon,  to  go  and  find  the  Eye 
4 


50  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

Hospital,  where  she  was  to  see  the  oculist,  and  arrange 
for  him  to  visit  her,  and  shortly  after  eleven  we  set  out. 

The  street  that  I  had  so  dimly  seen  the  night  before, 
showed  itself  by  daylight  to  be  a  fair,  broad  way.  Down 
the  middle,  after  the  pleasant  fashion  of  continental 
towns,  was  a  broad  walk,  planted  with  two  double-rows 
of  linden,  and  on  either  side  this  Lindenallee  was  the 
carriage  road,  private  houses,  shops,  exhibitions,  board- 
ing-houses. In  the  middle,  exactly  opposite  our  dwell- 
ing, was  the  New  Theatre,  just  drawing  to  the  close  of  its 
first  season.  I  looked  at  it  without  thinking  much  about 
it.  I  had  never  been  in  a  theatre  in  my  life,  and  the 
name  was  but  a  name  to  me. 

Turning  off  from  the  pretty  Alice,  and  from  the  green 
Hofgarten  which  bounded  it  at  one  end,  we  entered  a 
narrow,  ill-paved  street,  the  aspect  of  whose  gutters  and 
inhabitants  alike  excited  my  liveliest  disgust.  In  this 
street  was  the  Eye  Hospital,  as  was  presently  testified  to 
us  by  a  board  bearing  the  inscription,  Stadtische  Augen- 
klinik. 

We  were  taken  to  a  dimly-lighted  room  in  which  many 
people  were  waiting,  some  with  bandages  over  their  eyes, 
others  with  all  kinds  of  extraordinary  spectacles  on, 
which  made  them  look  like  phantoms  out  of  a  bad  dream 
— nearly  all  more  or  less  blind,  and  the  effect  was  suqjris- 
ingly  depressing. 

Presently  Miss  Hallam  and  Merrick  were  admitted  to 
an  inner  room,  and  I  was  left  to  await  their  return.  My 
eye  strayed  over  the  different  faces,  and  I  felt  a  sensation 
of  relief  when  I  saw  some  one  come  in  without  either 
bandage  or  spectacles.  The  new-comer  was  a  young 
man  of  middle  height,  and  of  proportions  slight  without 
being  thin.  There  was  nothing  the  matter  with  his  eyes, 
unless  perhaps  a  slight  short-sightedness:  he  had,  I 
thought,  one  of  the  gentlest,  most  attractive  faces  I  had 
ever  seen ;  boyishly  open  and  innocent  at  the  first  glance  j 
at  the  second,  endued  with  a  certain  reticent  calm  and 
intellectual  radiance  which  took  away  from  the  first 
youthfulness  of  his  appearance.  Soft,  yet  luminous  brown 
eyes,  loose  brown  hair  hanging  round  his  face,  a  certain 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  5! 

manner  which  for  me  at  least  had  a  charm,  were  the 
characteristics  of  this  young  man.  He  carried  a  violin 
case,  removed  his  hat  as  he  came  in,  and  being  seen  by 
one  of  the  young  men  who  sat  at  desks,  took  names 
down,  and  attended  to  people  in  general,  was  called  by 
him : 

"Herr  Helfen — Herr  Friedhelm  Helfen!" 

"  Ja — /tier/"  he  answered,  going  up  to  the  desk,  upon 
which  there  ensued  a  lively  conversation,  though  carried 
on  in  a  low  tone,  after  which  the  young  man  at  the  desk 
presented  a  white  card  to  "  Herr  Friedhelm  Helfen,"  and 
the  latter,  with  a  pleasant  "adieu,"  went  out  of  the  room 
again. 

Miss  Hallam  and  Merrick  presently  returned  from  the 
consulting-room,  and  we  went  out  of  the  dark  room  into 
the  street,  which  was  filled  with  spring  sunshine  and 
warmth :  a  contrast  something  like  that  between  Miss 
Hallam's  life  and  my  own,  I  have  thought  since.  Far 
before  us,  hurrying  on,  I  saw  the  young  man  with  the 
violin-case :  he  turned  off  by  the  theatre,  and  went  in  at 
a  side  door. 

An  hour's  wandering  in  the  Hofgarten — my  first  view 
of  the  Rhine — a  dull,  flat  stream  it  looked,  too.  I  have 
seen  it  since  then  in  mightier  flow.  Then  we  came  home, 
and  it  was  decided  that  we  should  dine  together  with  the 
rest  of  the  company  at  one  o'clock. 

A  bell  rang  at  a  few  minutes  past  one.  We  went 
down-stairs,  into  the  room  in  which  I  had  already  break- 
fasted, which,  in  general,  was  known  as  the  Saal.  As  I 
entered  with  Miss  Hallam  I  was  conscious  that  a  knot  of 
lads  or  young  men  stood  aside  to  let  us  pass,  and  then 
giggled  and  scuffled  behind  the  door  before  following  us 
into  the  Saal. 

Two  or  three  ladies  were  already  seated,  and  an  ex- 
ceedingly stout  lady  ladled  out  soup  at  a  side  table,  while 
Clara  and  a  servant-woman  carried  the  plates  round  to 
the  different  places.  The  stout  lady  turned  as  she  saw 
us,  and  greeted  us.  She  was  Frau  Steinmann,  our  host- 
ess. She  waited  until  the  youths  before  spoken  of  had 
come  in,  and  with  a  great  deal  of  noise  had  seated  them- 


5  2  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN: 

selves,  when  she  began,  aided  by  the  soup-ladle,  to  intro- 
duce us  all  to  each  other. 

We,  it  seemed,  were  to  have  the  honor  and  privilege 
of  being  the  only  English  ladies  of  the  company.  We 
were  introduced  to  one  or  two  others,  and  I  was  assigned 
a  place  by  a  lady  introduced  as  Fraulein  Anna  Sartorius,  a 
brunette,  rather  stout,  with  large  dark  eyes  which  looked 
at  me  in  a  way  I  did  not  like,  a  head  of  curly  black  hair 
cropped  short,  an  odd  brusque  manner,  and  a  something 
peculiar  or,  as  she  said,  selten  in  her  dress.  This  young 
lady  sustained  the  introduction  with  self-possession  and 
calm.  It  was  otherwise  with  the  young  gentlemen,  who 
appeared  decidedly  mixed.  There  were  some  half-dozen 
of  them  in  all — a  couple  of  English,  the  rest  German, 
Dutch,  and  Swedish.  I  had  never  been  in  company  with 
so  many  nationalities  before,  and  was  impressed  with  my 
situation — needlessly  so. 

All  these  young  gentlemen  made  bows  which  were,  in 
their  respective  ways,  triumphs  of  awkwardness,  with  the 
exception  of  one  of  our  compatriots,  who  appeared  to  be- 
lieve that  himself  and  his  manners  were  formed  to  charm 
and  subdue  the  opposite  sex.  We  then  sat  down,  and 
Fraulein  Sartorius  immediately  opened  a  conversation 
with  me. 

"  Sprcchen  Sie  Dcutsch,  Fraulein  ?  "  was  her  first  vent- 
ure, and  having  received  my  admission  that  I  did  not 
speak  a  word  of  it,  she  continued  in  good  English: 

"  Now  I  can  talk  to  you  without  offending  you.  It  is 
so  dreadful  when  English  people  who  don't  know  Ger- 
man persist  in  thinking  that  they  do.  There  was  an  En- 
glishwoman here  who  always  said  wer  when  she  meant 
where,  and  wo  when  she  meant  who.  She  said  the 
sounds  confused  her." 

The  boys  giggled  at  this,  but  the  joke  was  lost  upon 
me. 

"What  is  your  name?"  she  continued;  "I  didn't  catch 
what  Frau  Steinmann  said." 

"  May  Wedderburn,"  I  replied,  angry  with  myself  for 
blushing  so  excessively *as  I  saw  that  all  the  boys  held 
their  spoons  suspended,  listening  for  my  answer. 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


53 


"  May — das  hcisst  Mai"  said  she,  turning  to  the  assem- 
bled youths,  who  testified  that  they  were  aware  of  it,  and 
the  Dutch  boy,  Brinks,  inquired  gutturally: 

"  You  haf  one  zong  in  your  language  what  calls  itself 
'  Not  always  Mai,'  haf  you  not?" 

"Yes,"  said  I,  and  all  the  boys  began  to  giggle  as  if 
something  clever  had  been  said.  Taken  all  in  all,  what 
tortures  have  I  not  suffered  from  those  dreadful  boys. 
Shy  when  they  ought  to  have  been  bold,  and  bold  where 
a  modest  retiringness  would  better  have  become  them. 
Giggling  inanely  at  everything  and  nothing.  Noisy  and 
vociferous  amongst  themselves  or  with  inferiors;  shy, 
awkward  and  blushing  with  ladies  or  in  refined  society — 
distressing  my  feeble  efforts  to  talk  to  them  by  their  silly 
explosions  of  laughter  when  one  of  them  was  addressed. 
They  formed  the  bane  of  my  life  for  some  time. 

"  Will  you  let  me  paint  you  ?  "  said  Fraulein  Sartorius, 
whose  big  eyes  had  been  surveying  me  in  a  manner  that 
made  me  nervous. 

"Paint  me?" 

"Your  likeness,  I  mean.  You  are  very  pretty,  and  we 
never  see  that  color  of  hair  here." 

"Are  you  a  painter?" 

"No,  I'm  only  a  Studcntin  yet;  but  I  paint  from  mod- 
els. Well,  will  you  sit  to  me  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know.     If  I  have  time,  perhaps." 

"What  will  you  do  to  make  you  not  have  time  ?" 

I  did  not  feel  disposed  to  gratify  her  curiosity,  and  said 
I  did  not  know  yet  what  I  should  do, 

For  a  short  time  she  asked  no  more  questions,  then : 

"  Do  you  like  town  or  country  best  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know.     I  have  never  lived  in  a  town." 

"  Do  you  like  amusements — concerts,  and  theatre,  and 
opera  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  \  was  reluctantly  obliged  to  confess, 
for  I  saw  that  the  assembled  youths,  though  not  looking 
at  me  openly,  and  apparently  entirely  engrossed  with 
their  dinners,  were  listening  attentively  to  what  passed. 

"  You  don't  know"  repeated  Fraulein  Sartorius,  quickly 
seeing  through  my  thin  assumption  of  indifference,  and 


54 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


proceeding  to  draw  me  out  as  much  as  possible.  I  wish- 
ed Adelaide  had  been  there  to  beat  her  from  the  field. 
She  would  have  done  it  better  than  I  could. 

"  No ;  because  I  have  never  been  to  any." 

"  Haven't  you  ?  How  odd !  How  very  odd !  Isn't  it 
strange?  "she  added,  appealing  to  the  boys.  "  Fraulcm 
has  never  been  to  a  theatre  or  a  concert." 

I  disdained  to  remark  that  my  words  were  being  per- 
verted, but  the  game  instinct  rose  in  me.  Raising  my 
voice  a  little,  I  remarked : 

"It  is  evident  that  I  have  not  enjoyed  your  advan- 
tages, but  I  trust  that  the  gentlemen"  (with  a  bow  to  the 
listening  boys)  "will  make  allowances  for  the  difference 
between  us." 

The  young  gentlemen  burst  into  a  chorus  of  delighted 
giggles,  and  Anna,  shooting  a  rapid  glance  at  me,  made  a 
slight  grimace,  but  looked  not  at  all  displeased.  I  was, 
though,  mightily ;  but,  elate  with  victory,  I  turned  to  my 
compatriot  at  the  other  end  of  the  table,  and  asked  him  at 
what  time  of  the  year  Elberthal  was  pleasantest. 

"Oh,"  said  he,  "it's  always  pleasant  to  me,  but  that's 
owing  to  myself.  I  make  it  so." 

Just  then,  several  of  the  other  lads  rose,  pushing  their 
chairs  back  with  a  great  clatter,  bowing  to  the  assembled 
company,  and  saying  "  Gesegncte  Mahlzeit  I"  as  they 
went  out. 

"Why  are  they  going,  and  what  do  they  say?"  I  in- 
quired of  Miss  Sartorius,  who  replied,  quite  amiably : 

"They  are  students  at  the  Realschule.  They  have  to 
be  there  at  two  o'clock,  and  they  say,  '  Blessed  be  the 
meal-time!'  as  they  go  out." 

"  Do  they  ?     How  nice  ! "  I  could  not  help  saying. 

"  Would  you  like  to  go  for  a  walk  this  afternoon?" 
said  she. 

"  Oh,  very  much ! "  I  had  exclaimed,  before  I  remember- 
ed that  I  did  not  like  her,  and  did  not  intend  to  like  her. 
"  If  Miss  Hallam  can  spare  me,"  I  added. 

"  Oh,  I  think  she  will.  I  shall  be  ready  at  half-past 
two ;  then  we  shall  return  for  coffee  at  four.  I  will  knock 
at  your  door  at  the  time." 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  55 

On  consulting  Miss  Hallam  after  dinner,  I  found  she 
was  quite  willing  for  me  to  go  out  with  Anna,  and  at  the 
time  appointed  we  set  out. 

Anna  took  me  a  tour  round  the  town,  showed  me  the 
lions,  and  gave  me  topographical  details.  She  showed 
me  the  big,  plain  barrack,  and  the  desert  waste  of  the 
Exerzierplatz  spreading  before  it.  She  did  her  best  to 
entertain  me,  and  I,  with  a  childish  prejudice  against  her 
abrupt  manner,  and  the  free,  somewhat  challenging  look 
of  her  black  eyes,  was  reserved,  unresponsive,  stupid.  I 
took  a  prejudice  against  her — I  own  it — and  for  that  and 
other  sins  committed  against  a  woman  who  would  have 
been  my  friend  if  I  would  have  let  her,  I  say  humbly, 
Mea  culpai 

"It  seems  a  dull  kind  of  a  place,"  said  I. 
"  It   need  not  be.     You  have  advantages  here  which 
you   can't   get  everywhere.     I   have  been  here   several 
years,  and  as  I  have  no  other  home  I  rather  think  I  shall 
live  here." 

<  Oh,  indeed." 

'  You  have  a  home,  I  suppose  ?  " 

'Of  course." 

'  Brothers  and  sisters  ?  " 

'Two  sisters,"  I  replied,  mightily  ruffled  by  what  I 
chose  to  consider  her  curiosity  and  impertinence ;  though, 
when  I  looked  at  her,  I  saw  what  I  could  not  but  con- 
fess to  be  a  real,  and  not  unkind  interest  in  her  plain  face 
and  big  eyes. 

"  Ah !  I  have  no  brothers  and  sisters.  I  have  only  a 
little  house  in  the  country,  and  as  I  have  always  lived  in 
a  town,  I  don't  care  for  the  country.  It  is  so  lonely. 
The  people  are  so  stupid  too — not  always  though.  You 
were  offended  with  me  at  dinner,  nicht  <wahr?  " 

"  Oh  dear,  no  ! "  said  I,  very  awkwardly  and  very  untru- 
ly. The  truth  was,  I  did  not  like  her,  and  was  too 
young,  too  ignorant  and  gauche  to  try  to  smooth  over  my 
dislike.  I  did  not  know  the  pain  I  was  giving,  and  if  I 
had,  should  perhaps  not  have  behaved  differently. 

"Dock/"  she  said,  smiling.  "But  I  did  not  know 
what  a  child  you  were,  or  I  should  have  let  you  alone." 


5  6  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

More  offended  than  ever,  I  maintained  silence.  If  I 
were  certainly  touchy  and  ill  to  please,  Fraulein  Sartorius, 
it  must  be  owned,  did  not  know  how  to  apologize  grace- 
fully. I  have  since,  with  wider  knowledge  of  her  coun- 
try and  its  men  and  women,  got  to  see  that  what  made 
her  so  inharmonious  was,  that  she  had  a  woman's  form 
and  a  man's  disposition  and  love  of  freedom.  As  her 
countrywomen  taken  in  the  gross  are  the  most  utterly  "in 
bonds "  of  any  women  in  Europe,  this  spoiled  her  life  in 
a  manner  which  cannot  be  understood  here,  where  wo- 
men in  comparison  are  free  as  air,  and  gave  no  little  of 
the  brusqueness  and  roughness  to  her  manner.  In  an 
enlightened  English  home  she  would  have  been  an  ad- 
mirable, firm,  clever  woman ;  here  she  was  that  most 
dreadful  of  all  abnormal  growths — a  woman  with  a  will  of 
her  own. 

"What  do  they  do  here?"  I  inquired,  indifferently. 

"Oh,  many  things.  Though  it  is  not  a  large  town, 
there  is  a  School  of  Art,  which  brings  many  painters  here. 
There  are  a  hundred  and  fifty — besides  students." 

"And  you  are  a  student  ?  " 

"  Yes.  One  must  have  something  to  do — some  earriere 
— though  my  countrywomen  say  not.  I  shall  go  away 
for  a  few  months  soon,  but  I  am  waiting  for  the  last  great 
concert.  It  will  be  the  '  Paradise  Lost '  of  Rubinstein." 

"  Ah,  yes ! "  said  I,  politely,  but  without  interest.  I 
had  never  heard  of  Rubinstein  and  the  Verlorcnes  Para- 
dies.  Before  the  furore  of  1876,  how  many  scores  of 
provincial  English  had? 

"There  is  very  much  music  here,"  she  continued. 
"  Are  you  fond  of  it  ?  " 

"Ye-es.  I  can't  play  much,  but  I  can  sing.  I  have 
come  here  partly  to  take  singing  lessons." 

"So!" 

"Who  is  the  best  teacher?"  was  my  next  ingenuous' 
question. 

She  laughed. 

"  That  depends  upon  what  you  want  to  learn.  There 
are  so  many;  violin,  Clavier,  that  is  piano,  flute,  'cello, 
everything." 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


57 


"  Oh ! "  I  replied,  and  asked  no  more  questions  about 
music;  but  inquired  if  it  were  pleasant  at  Frau  Stein- 
man  a 's. 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"  Is  it  pleasant  anywhere  ?  I  don't  find  many  places 
pleasant,  because  I  cannot  be  a  humbug,  so  others  do 
not  like  me.  But  I  believe  some  people  like  Elberthal 
very  well.  There  is  the  theatre — that  makes  another 
element.  And  there  are  the  soldiers  and  Kanflcute — 
merchants,  I  mean,  so  you  see  there  is  variety,  though  it 
is  a  small  place." 

"  Ah,  yes ! "  said  I,  looking  about  me  as  we  passed 
down  a  very  busy  street,  and  I  glanced  to  right  and  left 
with  the  image  of  Eugen  Courvoisier  ever  distinctly  if 
unconfessedly  present  to  my  mental  view.  Did  he  live 
at  Elberthal  ?  and  if  so,  did  he  belong  to  any  of  those 
various  callings  ?  What  was  he  ?  An  artist  who  painted 
pictures  for  his  bread  ?  I  thought  that  very  probable. 
There  was  something  free  and  artist-like  in  his  manner, 
in  his  loose  waving  hair  and  in  his  keen  susceptibility  to 
beauty.  1  thought  of  his  emotion  at  hearing  that  glori- 
ous Bach  music.  Or  was  he  a  musician — what  Anna 
Sartorius  called  ein  Miisiker?  But  no.  My  ideas  of 
musicians  were  somewhat  hazy,  not  to  say  utterly  chaotic; 
they  embraced  only  two  classes;  those  who  performed  or 
gave  lessons,  and  those  who  composed.  I  had  never 
formed  to  myself  the  faintest  idea  of  a  composer,  and  my 
experience  of  teachers  and  performers  was  limited  to  one 
specimen — Mr.  Smythe,  of  Darton,  whose  method  and 
performances  would,  as  I  have  since  learned,  have  made 
the  hair  of  a  musician  stand  horrent  on  end.  No — I  did 
not  think  he  was  a  musician.  An  actor  ?  Perish  the 
thought,  was  my  inevitable  mental  answer.  How  should 
I  be  able  to  make  any  better  one  ?  A  soldier,  then  ? 
At  that  moment  we  met  a  mounted  Captain  of  Uhlans, 
harness  clanking,  accoutrements  rattling.  He  was  ap- 
parently an  acquaintance  of  my  companion,  for  he  saluted 
with  a  grave  politeness  which  sat  well  upon  him.  De- 
cidedly Eugen  Courvoisier  had  the  air  of  a  soldier. 
That  accounted  for  all.  No  doubt  he  was  a  soldier.  In 


sg  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

my  ignorance  of  the  strictness  of  German  military  regu- 
lations as  regards  the  wearing  of  uniform,  I  overlooked 
the  fact  that  he  had  been  in  civilian's  dress,  and  remained 
delighted  with  my  new  idea :  Captain  Courvoisier.  "  What 
is  the  German  for  Captain  ?  "  I  inquired,  abruptly. 

"  Hauptmann" 

"Thank  you."  Hauptmann  Eugen  Courvoisier — a 
noble  and  a  gallant  title,  and  one  which  became  him. 
"  How  much  is  a  thaler  ?  "  was  my  next  question. 

"  It  is  as  much  as  three  shillings  in  your  money." 

"  Oh,  thank  you,"  said  I,  and  did  a  little  sum  in  my 
own  mind.  At  that  rate  then,  I  owed  Herr  Courvoisier 
the  sum  of  ten  shillings.  How  glad  I  was  to  find  it 
came  within  my  means. 

As  I  took  off  my  things,  I  wondered  when  Herr 
Courvoisier  would  "make  out  his  accounts."  I  trusted 
soon. 


CHAPTER  III. 

"Probe  zum  verlorenen  Paradiese." 

MISS  HALL  AM  fulfilled  her  promise  with  regard  to 
my  singing  lessons.  She  had  a  conversation  with 
Fraulein  Sartorius,  to  whom,  unpopular  as  she  was,  I 
noticed  people  constantly  and  almost  instinctively  went 
when  in  need  of  precise  information  or  a  slight  dose  of 
common  sense  and  clear-headedness. 

Miss  Hallam  inquired  who  was  the  best  master. 

"  For  singing,  the  Herr  Direktor"  replied  Anna,  very 
promptly.  "And  then  he  directs  the  best  of  the  musical 
Vcrcinc — the  clubs — societies,  whatever  you  name  them. 
At  least  he  might  try  Miss  Wedderburn's  voice." 

"Who  is  he?" 

"The  head  of  anything  belonging  to  music  in  the  town 
— koniglicher  Musik-direktor.  He  conducts  all  the  great 
concerts,  and  though  he  does  not  sing  himself,  yet  he  is 
one  of  the  best  teachers  in  the  province.  Lots  of  people 
come  and  stay  here  on  purpose  to  learn  from  him." 

"And  what  are  these  Vereins?" 

"  Every  season  there  are  six  great  concerts  given,  and 
a  seventh  for  the  benefit  of  the  Direktor.  The  orchestra 
and  chorus  together  are  called  a  Verein — Mttsik-verein. 
The  chorus  is  chiefly  composed  of  ladies  and  gentlemen 
— amateurs,  you  know — Diletfariten.  The  Herr  Direktor 
is  very  particular  about  voices.  You  pay  so  much  for 
admission,  and  receive  a  card  for  the  season.  Then  you 
have  all  the  good  teaching — the  Proben" 

"What  is  a  Probe?"  I  demanded,  hastily,  remember- 
ing that  Courvoisier  had  used  the  word. 


go  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

"What  you  call  a  rehearsal." 

Ah!  then  he  was  musical.  At  last  I  had  found  it  out. 
Perhaps  he  was  one  of  the  amateurs  who  sang  at  these 
concerts,  and  if  so,  I  might  see  him  again,  and  if  so — 
But  Anna  went  on  : 

"  It  is  a  very  good  thing  for  any  one,  particularly  with 
such  a  teacher  as  Von  Francius." 

"You  must  join,"  said  Miss  Hallam  to  me. 

"There  is  Probe  to-night  to  Rubinstein's  'Paradise 
Lost',"  said  Anna.  "I  shall  go,  not  to  sing,  but  to  listen. 
I  can  take  Miss  Wedderburn,  if  you  like,  and  introduce 
her  to  Herr  von  Francius,  whom  I  know." 

"Very  nice!  very  much  obliged  to  you.  Certainly," 
said  Miss  Hallam. 

The  Probe  was  fixed  for  seven,  and  shortly  after  that 
time  we  set  off  for  the  Tonhalle,  or  concert-hall,  in  which 
it  was  held. 

"We  shall  be  much  too  early,"  said  she.  "But  the 
people  are  shamefully  late.  Most  of  them  only  come  to 
klatsch,  and  flirt,  or  try  to  flirt,  with  the-fftrr  Dircktor." 

This  threw  upon  my  mind  a  new  light  as  to  the  Herr 
Direktor,  and  I  walked  by  her  side  much  impressed. 
She  told  me  that  if  accepted  I  might  even  sing  in  the 
concert  itself,  as  there  had  only  been  four  Proben  so  far, 
and  there  were  still  several  before  the  Hanpt-probe." 

"What  is  the  Hanpt-probe?"  I  inquired. 

"  General  rehearsal — when  Herr  von  Francius  is  most 
unmerciful  to  his  stupid  pupils.  I  always  attend  that.  I 
like  to  hear  him  make  sport  of  them,  and  then  the  instru- 
mentalists laugh  at  them.  Von  Francius  never  flatters." 

Inspired  with  nightmare-like  ideas  as  to  this  terrible 
Hanpt-probe,  I  found  myself,  with  Anna,  turning  into 
a  low-fronted  building  inscribed  Stadtische  Tc/nhalle,  the 
concert-hall  of  the  good  town  of  Elberthal. 

"This  way,"  said  she.  "It  is  in  the  Rittersaal.  We 
don't  go  to  the  large  saal till  the  Hanpt-probe" 

I  followed  her  into  a  long,  rather  shabby-looking  room, 
at  one  end  of  which  was  a  low  orchestra,  about  which 
were  dotted  the  desks  of  the  absent  instrumentalists,  and 
some  stiff-looking  Cdli  and  Contrabassi  kept  watch  from 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  6 1 

a  wall.  On  the  orchestra  was  already  assembled  a  goodly 
number  of  young  men  and  women,  all  in  lively  conversa- 
tion, loud  laughter,  and  apparently  high  good-humor  with 
themselves  and  everything  in  the  world. 

A  young  man  with  a  fuzz  of  hair  standing  off  about  a 
sad  and  depressed-looking  countenance  was  stealing  "in 
and  out  and  round  about,"  and  distributing  sheets  of 
score  to  the  company.  In  the  conductor's  place  was  a 
tall  man  in  gray  clothes,  who  leaned  negligently  against 
the  rail,  and  held  a  conversation  with  a  pretty  young  lady, 
who  seemed  much  pleased  with  his  attention.  It  did  not 
strike  me  at  first  that  this  was  the  terrible  Dircktor  of 
whom  I  had  been  hearing.  He  was  young,  had  a  slen- 
der, graceful  figure,  and  an  exceedingly  handsome,  though 
(I  thought  at  first)  an  unpleasing  face.  There  was  some- 
thing in  his  attitude  and  manner  which  at  first  I  did  not 
quite  like.  Anna  walked  up  the  room,  and  pausing  be- 
fore the  estrade,  said: 

"Herr  Direktor!" 

He  turned:  his  eyes  fell  upon  her  face,  and  left  it  in- 
stantly to  look  at  mine.  Gathering  himself  together  into 
a  more  ceremonious  attitude,  he  descended  from  his  es- 
trade, and  stood  beside  us,  a  little  to  one  side,  looking  at 
vis  with  a  leisurely  calmness  which  made  me  feel,  I  knew 
not  why,  uncomfortable.  Meanwhile,  Anna  took  up  her 
parable. 

"  May  I  introduce  the  young  lady?  Miss  Wedderburn, 
Herr  Musik  Direktor  von  Francius.  Miss  Wedderburn 
wishes  to  join  the  Vercin,  if  you  think  her  voice  will  pass. 
Perhaps  you  will  allow  her  to  sing  to-night?" 

"  Certainly,  mcin  frait/ein"  said  he  to  me,  not  to  Anna. 
He  had  a  long,  rather  Jewish-looking  face,  black  hair, 
eyes,  and  mustache.  The  features  were  thin,  fine,  and 
pointed.  The  thing  which  most  struck  me  then,  at  any 
rate,  was  a  certain  expression  which,  conquering  all  others, 
dominated  them — at  once  a  hardness  and  a  hardihood 
which  impressed  me  disagreeably  then,  though  I  afterwards 
learned,  in  knowing  the  man,  to  know  much  more  truly 
the  real  meaning  of  that  unflinching  gaze  and  iron  look. 

"Your  voice  is  what,  mcin  2<">\iitlein  /"  he  asked. 


62  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

"Soprano." 

"Sopran?  We  will  see.  The  Soprani  sit  over  there, 
if  you  will  have  the  goodness." 

He  pointed  to  the  left  of  the  orchestra,  and  called  out 
to  the  melancholy-looking  young  man,  "Herr  Schonfeld, 
a  chair  for  the  young  lady ! " 

Herr  von  Francius  then  ascended  the  orchestra  him- 
self, went  to  the  piano,  and,  after  a  few  directions,  gave  us 
the  signal  to  begin.  Till  that  day — I  confess  it  with  shame 
— I  had  never  heard  of  the  Verlorenes  Parodies.  It  came 
upon  me  like  a  revelation.  I  sang  my  best,  substituting 
do,  re,  mi,  etc.,  for  the  German  words.  Once  or  twice,  as 
Herr  von  Francius's  forefinger  beat  time,  I  thought  I 
saw  his  head  turn  a  little  in  our  direction,  but  I  scarcely 
heeded  it.  When  the  first  chorus  was  over,  he  turned  to 
me: 

"  You  have  not  sung  in  a  chorus  before  ?  " 

"  No." 

"So!  I  should  like  to  hear  you  sing  something  sola." 
He  pushed  towards  me  a  pile  of  music,  and  while  the 
others  stood  looking  on  and  whispering  amongst  them- 
selves, he  went  on,  "  Those  are  all  sopran  songs.  Select 
one,  if  you  please,  and  try  it." 

Not  at  all  aware  that  the  incident  was  considered  un- 
precedented, and  was  creating  a  sensation,  I  turned  over 
the  music,  seeking  something  I  knew,  but  could  find  noth- 
ing. All  in  German,  and  all  strange.  Suddenly  I  came 
upon  one  entitled,  Bhiie  nur,  liebcs  Herz,  the  sopran  solo 
which  I  had  heard  as  I  sat  with  Courvoisier  in  the  cathe- 
dral. It  seemed  almost  like  an  old  friend.  I  opened  it, 
and  found  it  had  also  English  words.  That  decided  me. 

"I  will  try  this,"  said  I,  showing  it  to  him. 

He  smiled.  "'Sist gut .'"  Then  he  read  the  title  of  the 
song  aloud,  and  there  was  a  general  titter,  as  if  some  very 
great  joke  were  in  agitation,  and  were  much  appreciated. 
Indeed  I  found  that  in  general  the  jokes  of  the  Herr  Di- 
rektor,  when  he  condescended  to  make  any,  were  very 
keenly  relished  by  at  least  the  lady  part  of  his  pupils. 

Not  understanding  the  reason  of  the  titter  I  took  the 
music  in  my  hand,  and  waiting  for  a  moment  until  he 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  63 

gave  me  the  signal,  sang  it  after  the  best  wise  I  could — 
not  very  brilliantly,  I  dare  say,  but  with  at  least  all  my 
heart  poured  into  it.  I  had  one  requisite  at  least  of  an 
artist  nature — I  could  abstract  myself  upon  occasion  com- 
pletely from  my  surroundings.  I  did  so  now.  It  was  too 
beautiful,  too  grand.  I  remembered  that  afternoon  at 
Koln — the  golden  sunshine  streaming  through  the  painted 
windows,  the  flood  of  melody  poured  forth  by  the  invisi- 
ble singer;  above  all,  I  remembered  who  had  been  by  my 
side,  and  I  felt  as  if  again  beside  him. — again  influenced 
by  the  unusual  beauty  of  his  face  and  mien,  and  by  his 
clear,  strange,  commanding  eyes.  It  all  came  back  to  me 
— the  strangest,  happiest  day  of  my  life.  I  sang  as  I  had 
never  sung  before — as  I  had  not  known  I  could  sing. 

When  I  stopped,  the  tittering  had  ceased:  silence  sa- 
luted me.  The  young  ladies  were  all  looking  at  me: 
some  of  them  had  put  on  their  eyeglasses;  others  stared 
at  me  as  if  I  were  some  strange  animal  from  a  menagerie. 
The  young  gentlemen  were  whispering  amongst  them- 
selves and  taking  sidelong  glances  at  me.  I  scarcely 
heeded  anything  of  it.  I  fixed  my  eyes  upon  the  judge 
who  had  been  listening  to  my  performance — upon  Von 
Francius.  He  was  pulling  his  mustache  and  at  first  made 
no  remark. 

"You  have  sung  that  song  before,  gnddlges  frau/ein  ?  " 

"  No.  I  have  heard  it  once.  I  have  not  seen  the  mu- 
sic before." 

"So!"  He  bowed  slightly,  and  turning  once  more  to 
the  others,  said : 

"  We  will  begin  the  next  chorus.  Chorus  of  the  Damned. 
Now,  meine  Herrschaften,  I  would  wish  to  impress 
upon  you  one  thing,  if  I  can,  that  is — Silence,  indue 
Herren  /  "  he  called  sharply  towards  the  tenors,  who  were 
giggling  inanely  amongst  themselves.  "  A  chorus  of  dam- 
ned souls,"  he  proceeded  composedly,  "  would  not  sing  in 
the  same  unruffled  manner  as  a  young  lady  who  warbles, 
'Spring  is  come — tra  la  la!  Spring  is  come — lira,  lira!'  in 
her  mama's  drawing-room.  Try  to  imagine  yourself 
struggling  in  the  tortures  of  hell — "  (a  delighted  giggle 
and  a  sort  of  "  Oh,  you  dear,  wicked  man !  "  expression 


64  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

on  the  part  of  the  young  ladies ;  a  nudging  of  each  other 
on  that  of  the  young  gentlemen),  "and  sing  as  if  you  were 
damned." 

Scarcely  any  one  seemed  to  take  the  matter  the  least 
earnestly.  The  young  ladies  continued  to  giggle,  and  the 
young  gentlemen  to  nudge  each  other.  Little  enough  of 
expression,  if  plenty  of  noise,  was  there  in  that  magnifi- 
cent and  truly  difficult  passage,  the  changing  choruses  of 
the  Condemned  and  the  Blessed  ones — with  its  crowning 
"  WEH  !  "  thundering  down  from  highest  soprano  to  deep- 
est bass. 

"  Lots  of  noise,  and  no  meaning,"  observed  the  conduc- 
tor, leaning  himself  against  the  rail  of  the  estrade,  face  to 
his  audience,  folding  his  arms  and  surveying  them  all  one 
after  the  other  with  cold  self-possession.  It  struck  me 
that  he  despised  them  while  he  condescended  to  instruct 
them.  The  power  of  the  man  struck  me  again.  I  began 
to  like  him  better.  At  least  I  venerated  his  thorough  un- 
derstanding of  what  was  to  me  a  splendid  mystery.  No 
softening  appeared  in  the  master's  eyes  in  answer  to  the 
rows  of  pretty  appealing  faces  turned  to  him;  no  smile 
upon  his  contemptuous  lips  responded  to  the  eyes — black, 
brown,  gray,  blue,  yellow — all  turned  with  such  affecting 
devotion  to  his  own.  Composing  himself  to  an  insou- 
ciant attitude,  he  began  in  a  cool,  indifferent  voice,  which 
had,  however,  certain  caustic  tones  in  it  which  stung  vie 
at  least  to  the  quick: 

"I  never  heard  anything  worse,  even  from  you.  My 
honored  Fraulein;  my  gnddigcn  Hcrrcnj  just  try  once  to 
imagine  what  you  are  singing  about!  It  is  not  an  exer- 
cise— it  is  not  a  love  song,  either  of  which  you  would  no 
doubt  perform  excellently.  Conceive  what  is  happening! 
Put  yourself  back  into  those  mythical  times.  Believe, 
for  this  evening,  in  the  story  of  the  forfeited  Paradise. 
There  is  strife  between  the  Blessed  and  the  Damned;  the 
obedient  and  the  disobedient.  There  are  thick  clouds  in 
the  heavens — smoke,  fire,  and  sulphur — a  clashing  of 
swords  in  the  serried  ranks  of  the  angels:  cannot  you  see 
Michael,  Gabriel,  Raphael,  leading  the  heavenly  host? 
Cannot  some  of  you  sympathize  a  little  with  Satan  and 
his  struggle?" 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  65 

Looking  at  him,  I  thought  they  must  indeed  be  an  un- 
imaginative set!  in  that  dark  face  before  them  was  Meph- 
istopheles  at  least — tier  Geist  der  stets  verneint — if  nothing 
more  violent.  His  cool,  scornful  features  were  lit  up  with 
some  of  the  excitement  which  he  could  not  drill  into  the 
assemblage  before  him.  Had  he  been  gifted  with  the  req- 
uisite organ  he  would  have  acted  and  sung  the  chief  char- 
acter in  faitst,  con  amore. 

"  Ach,  um  Gottcswilten ! "  he  went  on,  shrugging  his 
shoulders,  "  try  to  forget  what  you  are !  Try  to  forget 
that  none  of  you  ever  had  a  wicked  thought  or  an  unholy 
aspiration — " 

( "  Don't  they  see  how  he  is  laughing  at  them  ? "  I 
wondered.) 

"You,  chorus  of  the  Condemned,  try  to  conjure  up 
every  wicked  thought  you  can,  and  let  it  come  out  in 
your  voices — you  who  sing  the  strains  of  the  blessed  ones, 
think  of  what  blessedness  is.  Surely  each  of  you  has  his 
own  idea !  Some  of  you  may  agree  with  Lenore : 

'  Bei  ihm,  bei  ihm  ist  Seligkeit, 
Und  ohne  Wilhelm  Hollc  !  ' 

If  so,  think  of  him ;  think  of  her — only  sing  it,  what- 
ever it  is.     Remember  the  strongest  of  feelings  : 

'Die  Engel  nennen  es  Himmelsfreude 
Die  Teufel  nennen  es  Hollenqual, 
Die  Menschen  nennen  es — LIEBE  ! ' 

And  sing  it !  " 

He  had  not  become  loud  or  excited  in  voice  or  gesticu- 
lation, but  his  words,  flung  at  them  like  so  many  scornful 
little  bullets,  the  indifferent  resignation  of  his  attitude,  had 
their  effect  upon  the  crew  of  giggling,  simpering  girls  and 
awkward,  self-conscious  young  men.  Some  idea  seemed 
vouchsafed  to  them  that  perhaps  their  performance  had 
not  been  quite  all  that  it  might  have  been ;  they  began  in 
a  little  more  earnest,  and  the  chorus  went  better. 

For  my  own  part,  I  was  deeply  moved.  A  vague  excite- 
ment, a  wild,  and  not  altogether  a  holy  one,  had  stolen 
over  me.  I  understood  now  how  the  man  might  have 
5 


66  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

influence.  I  bent  to  the  power  of  his  will,  which  reached 
me  where  I  stood  in  the  back-ground,  from  his  dark  eyes, 
which  turned  for  a  moment  to  me  now  and  then.  It  was 
that  will  of  his  which  put  me  as  it  were  suddenly  into  the 
spirit  of  the  music,  and  revealed  me  depths  in  my  own 
heart  at  which  I  had  never  even  guessed.  Excited,  with 
cheeks  burning  and  my  heart  hot  within  me,  I  followed 
his  words  and  his  gestures,  and  grew  so  impatient  of  the 
dull  stupidity  of  the  others,  that  tears  came  to  my  eyes. 
How  could  that  young  woman,  in  the  midst  of  a  sublime 
chorus,  deliberately  pause,  arrange  the  knot  of  her  neck- 
tie, and  then,  after  a  smile  and  a  side-glance  at  the  con- 
ductor, go  on  again  with  a  more  self-satisfied  simper 
than  ever  upon  her  lips  ?  What  might  not  the  thing  be 
with  a  whole  chorus  of  sympathetic  singers  ?  The  very 
dullness  which  in  fact  prevailed  revealed  to  me  great 
regions  of  possible  splendor,  almost  too  vast  to  think  of. 

At  last  it  was  over.  I  turned  to  the  Dinktor,  who  was 
still  near  the  piano,  and  asked  timidly : 

"  Do  you  think  I  may  join  ?     Will  my  voice  do  ?  " 

An  odd  expression  crossed  his  face ;  he  answered  dryly : 

"  You  may  join  the  Vcrein,  mcin  Frauldn — yes.  Please 
come  this  way  with  me.  Pardon,  Fraulein  Stockhausen 
— another  time.  I  am  sorry  to  say  I  have  business  at 
present." 

A  black  look  from  a  pretty  brunette,  who  had  advanced 
with  an  engaging  smile  and  an  open  score  to  ask  him 
some  question,  greeted  this  very  composed  rebuff  of  her 
advance.  The  black  look  was  directed  at  me — guiltless. 

Without  taking  any  notice  of  the  other,  he  led  Anna 
and  me  to  a  small  inner  room,  where  there  was  a  desk 
and  writing  materials. 

"Your  name,  if  you  will  be  good  enough." 

"  Wedderburn." 

"  Your  VorncD/ie,  though — your  first  name." 

"My  Christian  name — oh,  May." 

"M — a — na  /  Perhaps  you  will  be  so  good  as  to  write 
it  yourself,  and  the  street  and  number  of  the  house  in 
which  you  live." 

I  complied. 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  67 

"  Have  you  been  here  long  ?  " 

"  Not  quite  a  week." 

"  Do  you  intend  to  make  any  stay  ?  " 

"Some  months,  probably." 

"  Humph !  If  you  wish  to  make  any  progress  in  music, 
you  must  stay  much  longer." 

"It — I — it  depends  upon  other  people  how  long  I  re- 
main." 

He  smiled  slightly,  and  his  smile  was  not  unpleasant ; 
it  lighted  up  the  darkness  of  his  face  in  an  agreeable  man- 
ner. 

"  So  I  should  suppose.  I  will  call  upon  you  to-morrow 
at  four  in  the  afternoon.  I  should  like  to  have  a  little 
conversation  with  you  about  your  voice.  Adieu,  meine 
Damen." 

With  a  slight  bow  which  sufficiently  dismissed  us,  he 
turned  to  the  desk  again,  and  we  went  away. 

Our  homeward  walk  was  a  somewhat  silent  one.  Anna 
certainly  asked  me  suddenly  where  I  had  learned  to  sing. 

"  I  have  not  learned  properly.     I  can't  help  singing." 

"  I  did  not  know  you  had  a  voice  like  that,"  said  she, 
again. 

"  Like  what  ?  " 

"  Herr  von  Francius  will  tell  you  all  about  it  to-mor- 
row," said  she,  abruptly. 

"What  a  strange  man  Herr  von  Francius  is!"  said  I. 
"  Is  he  clever  ?  " 

"  Oh,  very  clever." 

"  At  first  I  did  not  like  him.    Now  I  think  I  do,  though." 

She  made  no  answer  for  a  few  minutes;  then  said : 

"  He  is  an  excellent  teacher." 


CHAPTER  IV. 

HERR  VON  FRANCIUS. 

WHEN  Miss  Hallam  heard  from  Anna  Sartorius  that 
my  singing  had  evidently  struck  Herr  von  Francius, 
and  of  his  intended  visit,  she  looked  pleased — so  pleased 
that  I  was  surprised. 

He  came  the  following  afternoon,  at  the  time  he  had 
specified.  Now,  in  the  broad  daylight,  and  apart  from 
his  official,  professional  manner,  I  found  the  Herr  Dirck- 
tor  still  different  from  the  man  of  last  night,  and  yet  the 
same.  He  looked  even  younger  now  than  on  the  estrade 
last  night,  and  quiet  though  his  demeanor  was,  attuned  to 
a  gentlemanly  calm  and  evenness,  there  was  still  the  one 
thing,  the  cool,  hard  glance  left,  to  unite  him  with  the 
dark,  somewhat  sinister-looking  personage  who  had  cast 
his  eyes  round  our  circle  last  night,  and  told  us  to  sing  as 
if  we  were  damned. 

"  Miss  Hallam,  this  is  Herr  von  Francius,"  said  I. 
"He  speaks  English,"  I  added. 

Von  Francius  glanced  from  her  to  me  with  a  some- 
what inquiring  expression. 

Miss  Hallam  received  him  graciously,  and  they  talked 
about  all  sorts  of  trifles,  whilst  I  sat  by  in  seemly  silence, 
till  at  last  Miss  Hallam  said : 

"  Can  you  give  me  any  opinion  upon  Miss  Wedder- 
burn's  voice  ?  " 

"  Scarcely,  until  I  have  given  it  another  trial.  She 
seems  to  have  had  no  training." 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


69 


"  No,  that  is  true,"  she  said,  and  proceeded  to  inform 
him  casually  that  she  wished  me  to  have  every  advantage 
I  could  get  from  my  stay  in  Elberthal,  and  must  put  the 
matter  into  his  hands.  Von  Francius  looked  pleased. 

For  my  part,  I  was  deeply  moved.  Miss  Hallam's 
generosity  to  one  so  stupid  and  ignorant  touched  me 
nearly. 

Von  Francius,  pausing  a  short  time,  at  last  said : 

"  I  must  try  her  voice  again,  as  I  remarked.  Last 
night  I  was  struck  with  her  sense  of  the  dramatic  point 
of  what  we  were  singing — a  quality  which  I  do  not  too 
often  find  in  my  pupils.  I  think,  mein  fraulein,  that 
with  care  and  study  you  might  take  a  place  on  the 
stage." 

"The  stage!"  I  repeated,  startled,  and  thinking  of 
Courvoisier's  words. 

But  Von  Francius  had  been  reckoning  without  his 
host.  When  Miss  Hallam  spoke  of  "putting  the  matter 
into  his  hands,"  she  understood  the  words  in  her  own 
sense. 

"The  stage!"  said  she,  with  a  slight  shiver.  "That  is 
quite  out  of  the  question.  Miss  Wedderburn  is  a  young 
lady — not  an  actress." 

"  So !  Then  it  is  impossible  to  be  both  in  your  coun- 
try ?  "  said  he,  with  polite  sarcasm.  "  I  spoke  as  simple 
Kiinstler — artist — I  was  not  thinking  of  anything  else.  I 
do  not  think  the  gnadiges  Frauleiti  will  ever  make  a 
good  singer  of  mere  songs.  She  requires  emotion  to  bring 
out  her  best  powers — a  little  passion — a  little  scope  for 
acting  and  abandon  before  she  can  attain  the  full  extent 
of  her  talent." 

He  spoke  in  the  most  perfectly  matter-of-fact  way,  and  I 
trembled.  I  feared  lest  this  display  of  what  Miss  Hallam 
would  consider  little  short  of  indecent  laxity  and  Bohe- 
mianism,  would  shock  her  so  much  that  I  should  lose 
everything  by  it.  It  was  not  so,  however. 

"  Passion — abandon  !  I  think  you  cannot  understand 
what  you  are  talking  about!"  said  she.  "  My  dear  sir, 
you  must  understand  that  those  kind  of  things  may  be  all 
very  well  for  one  set  of  people,  but  not  for  that  class  to 


70  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN, 

which  Miss  Wedderbum  belongs.  Her  father  is  a  clergy- 
man " — Yon  Francius  bowed,  as  if  he  did  not  quite  see 
what  that  had  to  do  with  it — "in  short,  that  idea  is  im- 
possible. I  tell  you  plainly.  She  may  learn  as  much  as 
she  likes,  but  she  wUl  never  be  allowed  to  go  upon  the 
stage." 

"Then  she  may  teach  ?  "  said  he,  inquiringly. 

"  Certainly.  I  believe  that  is  what  she  wishes  to  do,  in 
case — if  necessary." 

"  She  may  teach,  but  she  may  not  act,"  said  he,  reflect- 
ively. "  So  be  it,  then !  Only,"  he  added,  as  if  making 
a  last  effort,  "  I  would  just  mention  that,  apart  from  ar- 
tistic considerations,  while  a  lady  may  wear  herself  out  as 
a  poorly-paid  teacher,  ^.frima  donna — " 

Miss  Hallam  smiled  with  calm  disdain. 

"  It  is  not  of  the  least  use  to  speak  of  such  a  thing. 
You  and  I  look  at  the  matter  from  quite  different  points 
of  view,  and  to  argue  about  it  would  only  be  to  waste 
time." 

Von  Francius,  with  a  sarcastic,  ambiguous  smile,  turned 
to  me : 

"  And  you,  mein  Frauldn  ?  " 

"  I — no.  I  agree  with  Miss  Hallam,"  I  murmured,  not 
really  having  found  myself  able  to  think  about  it  at  all, 
but  conscious  that  opposition  was  useless.  And,  besides, 
I  did  shrink  away  from  the  ideas  conjured  up  by  that 
word,  "  the  stage." 

"So!"  said  he,  with  a  little  bow  and  a  half  smile. 
"Alsof  I  must  try  to  make  the  round  man  fit  into  the 
square  hole.  The  first  thing  will  be  another  trial  of  your 
voice ;  then  I  must  see  how  many  lessons  a  week  you  will 
require,  and  must  give  you  instructions  about  practicing. 
You  must  understand  that  it  is  not  pleasure  or  child's 
play  which  you  are  undertaking.  It  is  a  work  in  order  to 
accomplish  which  you  must  strain  every  nerve,  and  give 
up  even-thing  which  in  any  way  interferes  with  it." 

"I  don't  know  whether  I  shall  have  time  for  it,"  I  mur- 
mured, looking  doubtfully  towards  Miss  Hallam. 

••  Yes.  May  ;  you  will  have  time  for  it,"  was  all  she  said. 

"  Is  there  a  piano  in  the  house  ?"  said  Yon  Francius. 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  7 1 

"  But,  yes,  certainly.  Fraulein  Sartorius  has  one ;  she  will 
lend  it  to  us  for  half  an  hour.  If  you  were  at  liberty,  mein 
fraulcin,  just  now — " 

"  Certainly,"  said  I,  following  him,  as  he  told  Miss  Hal- 
lam  that  he  would  see  her  again. 

As  he  knocked  at  the  door  of  Anna's  sitting-room,  she 
came  out,  dressed  for  walking. 

"Ach,  JFraukin!  will  you  allow  us  the  use  of  your  pi- 
ano for  a  few  minutes  ?" 

"Bitte /"  said  she,  motioning  us  into  the  room.  "I  am 
sorry  I  have  an  engagement,  and  must  leave  you." 

"Do  not  let  us  keep  you  on  any  account,"  said  he,  with 
touching  politeness ;  and  she  went  out. 

"  Desto  besser  /"  he  observed,  shrugging  his  shoulders. 

He  pulled  off  his  gloves  with  rather  an  impatient  gest- 
ure, seated  himself  at  the  piano,  and  struck  S9me  chords, 
in  an  annoyed  manner. 

"  Who  is  that  old  lady  ?  "  he  inquired,  looking  up  at 
me.  "  Any  relation  of  yours  ?  " 

"  No — oh  no !     I  am  her  companion." 

"  So !  And  you  mean  to  let  her  prevent  you  from  fol- 
lowing the  career  you  have  a  talent  for  ?  " 

"If  I  do  not  do  as  she  wishes,  I  shall  have  no  chance 
of  following  any  career  at  all,"  said  I.  "And,  besides, 
hov,-  does  any  one  know  that  I  have  a  talent — for — for — 
what  you  say?" 

"  I  know  it ;  that  is  why  I  said  it  I  wish  I  could  per- 
suade that  old  lady  to  my  way  of  thinking ! "  he  added. 
"  I  wish  you  were  out  of  her  hands  and  in  mine.  Na  ! 
we  shall  see ! " 

It  was  not  a  very  long  "trial"  that  he  gave  me;  we 
soon  rose  from  the  piano. 

"  To-morrow  at  eleven  I  come  to  give  you  a  lesson," 
said  he.  "  I  am  going  to  talk  to  Miss  Hallam  now.  You 
please  not  come.  I  wish  to  see  her  alone;  and  I  can 
manage  her  better  by  myself,  nicht  wa/ir  /" 

"  Thank  you,"  said  I  in  a  subdued  tone. 

"You  must  have  a  piano,  too,"  he  added;  "and  we 
must  have  the  room  to  ourselves.  I  allow  no  third  per- 
son to  be  present  in  my  private  lessons ;  but  go  on  the 


72  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

principle  of  Paul  Heyse's  hero,  Edwin,  either  in  open  lect- 
ure, or  untcr  Tier  Augen" 

With  that  he  held  the  door  open  for  me,  and  as  I  turn- 
ed into  my  room,  shook  hands  with  me  in  a  friendly  man- 
ner, bidding  me  expect  him  on  the  morrow. 

Certainly,  I  decided,  Herr  von  Francius  was  quite  un- 
like any  one  I  had  ever  seen  before;  and  how  awfully 
cool  he  was  and  self-possessed.  I  liked  him  well,  though. 

The  next  morning  Herr  von  Francius  gave  me  my  first 
lesson,  and  after  that  I  had  one  from  him  nearly  every 
day.  As  teacher  and  as  acquaintance  he  was,  as  it  were, 
two  different  men.  As  teacher  he  was  strict,  severe,  gave 
much  blame  and  little  praise;  but  when  he  did  once  praise 
me,  I  remember,  I  carried  the  remembrance  of  it  with  me 
for  days,  as  a  ray  of  sunshine.  He  seemed  never  sur- 
prised to  find  how  much  work  had  been  prepared  for  him, 
although  he  would  express  displeasure  sometimes  at  its 
quality.  He  was  a  teacher  whom  it  was  impossible  not  to 
respect,  whom  one  obeyed  by  instinct.  As  man,  as  ac- 
quaintance, I  knew  little  of  him,  though  I  heard  much — 
idle  tales,  which  it  would  be  as  idle  to  repeat.  They 
chiefly  related  to  his  domineering  disposition  and  deter- 
mination to  go  his  own  way,  and  disregard  that  of  others. 
In  this  fashion  my  life  became  busy  enough. 


CHAPTER  V. 

"  LOHENGRIN. " 

AS  time  went  on,  the  image  of  Eugen  Courvoisier,  my 
unspoken  of,  unguessed  at,  friend,  did  not  fade  from 
my  memory.  It  grew  stronger.  I  thought  of  him  every 
day — never  went  out  without  a  distinct  hope  that  I 
might  see  him ;  never  came  in  without  vivid  disappoint- 
ment that  I  had  not  seen  him.  I  carried  three  thalers 
ten  groschen  so  arranged  in  my  purse  that  I  could  lay 
my  hand  upon  them  at  a  moment's  notice,  for  as  the  days 
went  on  it  appeared  that  Herr  Courvoisier  had  not  made 
up  his  accounts,  or  if  he  had,  had  not  chosen  to  claim 
that  part  of  them  owed  by  me. 

I  did  not  see  him.  I  began  dismally  to  think  that 
after  all  the  whole  thing  was  at  an  end.  He  did  not  live 
at  Elberthal — he  had  certainly  never  told  me  that  he  did, 
I  reminded  myself.  He  had  gone  about  his  business  and 
interests — had  forgotten  the  waif  he  had  helped  one 
spring  afternoon,  and  I  should  never  see  him  again.  My 
heart  fell  and  sank  with  a  reasonless,  aimless  pang.  What 
did  it,  could  it,  ought  it  to  matter  to  me  whether  I  ever 
saw  him  again  or  not  ?  Nothing,  certainly,  and  yet  I 
troubled  myself  about  it  a  great  deal.  I  made  little 
dramas  in  my  mind  of  how  he  and  I  were  to  meet,  and 
how  I  would  exert  my  will  and  make  him  take  the 
money.  Whenever  I  saw  an  unusually  large  or  handsome 
house,  I  instantly  fell  to  wondering  if  it  were  his,  and 
sometimes  made  inquiries  as  to  the  owner  of  any  particu- 


74 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


larly  eligible  residence.  I  heard  of  Brauns,  Miillers,  Pie- 
pers,  Schmidts,  and  the  like,  as  owners  of  the  same — 
never  the  name  Courvoisier.  He  had  disappeared — I 
feared  forever. 

Coming  in  weary  one  day  from  the  town,  where  I  had 
been  striving  to  make  myself  understood  in  shops,  I  was 
met  by  Anna  Sartorius  on  the  stairs.  She  had  not  yet 
ceased  to  be  civil  to  me — civil,  that  is,  in  her  way — and 
my  unreasoning  aversion  to  her  was  as  great  as  ever. 

"This  is  the  last  opera  of  the  season,"  said  she,  dis- 
playing a  pink  ticket.  "I  am  glad  you  will  get  to  see 
one,  as  the  theatre  closes  after  to-night." 

"  But  I  am  not  going." 

"Yes,  you  are.  Miss  Hallam  has  a  ticket  for  you.  I 
am  going  to  chaperon  you." 

"  I  must  go  and  see  about  that,"  said  I,  hastily,  rushing 
up-stairs. 

The  news,  incredible  though  it  seemed,  was  quite  true. 
The  ticket  lay  there.  I  picked  it  up  and  gazed  at  it 
fondly.  Stadtthcater  zu  Elberthal.  Parquet,  No.  16.  As 
I  had  never  been  in  a  theatre  in  my  life,  this  conveyed 
no  distinct  idea  to  my  mind,  but  it  was  quite  enough  for 
me  that  I  was  going.  The  rest  of  the  party,  I  found, 
were  to  consist  of  Vincent,  the  Englishman,  Anna  Sar- 
torius, and  the  Dutch  boy,  Brinks. 

It  was  Friday  evening,  and  the  opera  was  Lohengrin. 
I  knew  nothing,  then,  about  different  operatic  styles,  and 
my  ideas  of  operatic  music  were  based  upon  duets  upon 
selected  airs  from  La  Traviata,  La  Somnamlwla,  and 
Liicia.  I  thought  the  story  of  Lohengrin,  as  related  by 
Vincent,  interesting.  I  was  not  in  the  least  aware  that 
my  first  opera  was  to  be  a  different  one  from  that  of  most 
English  girls.  Since,  I  have  wondered  sometimes  what 
would  be  the  result  upon  the  musical  taste  of  a  person 
who  was  put  through  a  course  of  Wagnerian  opera  first, 
and  then  turned  over  to  the  Italian  school — leaving  Mo- 
zart, Beethoven,  Gliick  to  take  care  of  themselves,  as 
they  may  very  well  do — thus  exactly  reversing  the  usual 
(English)  process. 

Anna  was  very  quiet  that  evening.     Afterwards  I  knew 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


75 


that  she  must  have  been  observing  me.  We  were  in  the 
first  row  of  the  parquet,  with  the  orchestra  alone  between 
us  and  the  stage.  I  was  fully  occupied  in  looking  about 
me — now  at  the  curtain  hiding  the  great  mystery,  now 
behind  and  above  me  at  the  boxes,  in  a  youthful  state 
of  ever-increasing  hope  and  expectation. 

"We  are  very  early,"  said  Vincent,  who  was  next  to 
me,  "very  early,  and  very  near,"  he  added,  but  he  did 
not  seem  much  distressed  at  either  circumstance. 

Then  the  gas  was  suddenly  turned  up  quite  high.  The 
bustle  increased  cheerfully.  The  old,  young,  and  middle- 
aged  ladies  who  filled  the  Logen  in  the  Erster  Rang — har- 
dened theatre-goers,  who  came  as  regularly  every  night  in 
the  week  during  the  eight  months  of  the  season  as  they  ate 
their  breakfasts  and  went  to  their  beds,  were  gossiping  with 
the  utmost  violence,  exchanging  nods  and  odd  little  old- 
fashioned  bows  with  other  ladies  in  all  parts  of  the  house, 
leaning  over  to  look  whether  the  parquet  was  well  filled, 
and  remarking  that  there  were  more  people  in  the  Balcon 
than  usual.  The  musicians  were  dropping  into  the  orches- 
tra. I  was  startled  to  see  a  face  I  knew — that  pleasant- 
looking  young  violinist  with  the  brown  eyes,  whose  name  I 
had  heard  called  out  at  the  eye  hospital.  They  all  seemed 
very  fond  of  him,  particularly  a  man  who  struggled  about 
with  a  violoncello,  and  who  seemed  to  have  a  series  of  jokes 
to  relate  to  Herr  Helfen,  exploding  with  laughter,  and 
every  now  and  then  shaking  the  loose  thick  hair  from  his 
handsome,  genial  face.  Helfen  listened  to  him  with  a 
half  smile,  screwing  up  his  violin  and  giving  him  a  quiet 
look  now  and  then.  The  inspiring  noise  of  tuning-up 
had  begun,  and  I  was  on  the  very  tiptoe  of  expectation. 

As  I  turned  once  more  and  looked  round,  Vincent 
said,  laughing,  "  Miss  Wedderburn,  your  hat  has  hit  me 
three  times  in  the  face."  It  was,  by  the  bye,  the  brown 
hat  which  had  graced  my  head  that  day  at  Koln. 

"  Oh,  has  it  ?  I  beg  your  pardon ! "  said  I,  laughing 
too,  as  I  brought  my  eyes  again  to  bear  upon  the  stage. 
"The  seats  are  too  near  toge — " 

Further  words  were  upon  my  lips,  but  they  were  never 
uttered.  In  roving  across  the  orchestra  to  the  foot-lights, 


'•ft- 


7  6  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

my  eyes  were  arrested.  In  the  well  of  the  orchestra, 
immediately  before  my  eyes,  was  one  empty  chair,  that 
by  right  belonging  to  the  leader  of  the  first  violins. 
Friedhelm  Helfen  sat  in  the  one  next  below  it.  All  the 
rest  of  the  musicians  were  assembled.  The  conductor 
was  in  his  place,  and  looked  a  little  impatiently  towards 
that  empty  chair.  Through  a  door  to  the  left  of  the 
orchestra  there  came  a  man,  carrying  a  violin,  and  made 
his  way,  with  a  nod  here,  a  half  smile  there,  a  tap  on  the 
shoulder  in  another  direction.  Arrived  at  the  empty 
chair,  he  laid  his  hand  upon  Helfen's  shoulder,  and  bend- 
ing over  him,  spoke  to  him  as  he  seated  himself.  He 
kept  his  hand  on  that  shoulder,  as  if  he  liked  it  to  be 
there.  Helfen's  eyes  said  as  plainly  as  possible  that  he 
liked  it.  Fast  friends,  on  the  face  of  it,  were  these  two 
men.  In  this  moment,  though  I  sat  still,  motionless,  and 
quiet,  I  certainly  realized  as  nearly  as  possible  that  im- 
possible sensation,  the  turning  upside  down  of  the  world. 
I  did  not  breathe.  I  waited,  spell-bound,  in  the  vague 
idea  that  my  eyes  might  open,  and  I  find  that  I  had  been 
dreaming.  After  an  earnest  speech  to  Helfen  the  new- 
comer raised  his  head,  and  as  he  shouldered  his  violin 
his  eyes  traveled  carelessly  along  the  first  row  of  the 
parquet — our  row.  I  did  not  awake;  things  did  not 
melt  away  in  a  mist  before  my  eyes.  He  ivas  Eugen  Cour- 
voisier,  and  he  looked  braver,  handsomer,  gallanter,  and 
more  apart  from  the  crowd  of  men  now,  in  this  moment, 
than  even  my  sentimental  dreams  had  pictured  him.  I 
felt  it  all :  I  also  know  now  that  it  was  partly  the  very 
strength  of  the  feeling  I  had — the  very  intensity  of  the 
admiration  which  took  from  me  reflection  and  reason  for 
the  moment.  I  felt  as  if  every  one  must  see  how  I  felt. 
I  remembered  that  no  one  knew  what  had  happened ;  I 
dreaded  lest  they  should.  I  did  the  most  cowardly  and 
treacherous  thing  that  circumstances  permitted  to  me — 
displayed  to  what  an  extent  my  power  of  folly  and  stu- 
pidity could  carry  me.  I  saw  these  strange,  bright  eyes, 
whose  power  I  felt,  coming  towards  me.  In  one  second 
they  would  be  upon  me.  1  felt  myself  white  with  anxiety. 
His  eyes  were  coming — coming — slowly,  surely.  They 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


77 


had  fallen  upon  Vincent,  and  he  nodded  to  him.  They 
fell  upon  me.  It  was  for  the  tenth  of  a  second  only.  I 
saw  a  look  of  recognition  flash  into  his  eyes — upon  his 
face.  I  saw  he  was  going  to  bow  to  me.  With  (as  it 
seemed  to  me)  ajl  the  blood  in  my  veins  rushing  to  my 
face,  my  head  swimming,  my  heart  beating,  I  dropped  my 
eyes  to  the  play-bill  upon  my  lap,  and  stared  at  the 
crabbed  German  characters — the  names  of  the  players, 
the  characters  they  took.  "  Elsa — Lohengrin."  I  read 
them  again  and  again,  while  my  ears  were  singing,  my 
heart  beating  so,  and  I  thought  every  one  in  the  theatre 
knew  and  was  looking  at  me. 

"  Mind  you  listen  to  the  overture,  Miss  Wedderburn," 
said  Vincent,  hastily,  in  my  ear,  as  the  first  liquid,  yearn- 
ing, long-drawn  notes  sounded  from  the  violins. 

"Yes,"  said  I,  raising  my  face  at  last,  and  looking,  or 
rather  feeling  a  look  compelled  from  me,  to  the  place 
where  he  sat.  This  time  our  eyes  met  fully.  I  do  not 
know  what  I  felt  when  I  saw  him  look  at  me  as  unrecog- 
nizingly  as  if  I  had  been  a  wooden  doll  in  a  shop  window. 
Was  he  looking  past  me  ?  No.  His  eyes  met  mine 
direct — glance  for  glance :  not  a  sign,  not  a  quiver  of  the 
mouth,  not  a  waver  of  the  eyelids.  I  heard  no  more 
of  the  overture.  When  he  was  playing,  and  so  occupied 
with  his  music,  I  observed  him  surreptitiously;  when  he 
was  not  playing,  I  kept  my  eyes  fixed  firmly  upon  my 
play-bill.  I  did  not  know  whether  to  be  most  distressed 
at  my  own  disloyalty  to  a  kind  friend,  or  most  appalled 
to  find  that  the  man  with  whom  I  had  spent  a  whole 
afternoon  in  the  firm  conviction  that  he  was  outwardly, 
as  well  as  inwardly,  my  equal  and  a  gentleman — (how 
the  tears,  half  of  shame,  half  of  joy,  rise  to  my  eyes  now 
as  I  think  of  my  poor,  pedantic  little  scruples  then  ! ) — 
the  man  of  whom  I  had  assuredly  thought  and  dreamed 
many  and  many  a  time  and  oft  was — a  professional 
musician,  a  man  in  a  band,  a  German  band,  playing  in 
the  public  orchestra  of  a  provincial  town.  Well !  well ! 

In  our  village  at  home,  where  the  population  consisted 
of  clergymen's  widows,  daughters  of  deceased  naval 
officers,  and  old  women  in  general,  and  those  old  women 


7  8  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

ladies  of  the  genteelest  description- — the  Army  and  the 
Church  (for  which  I  had  been  brought  up  to  have  the 
deepest  veneration  and  esteem,  as  the  two  head  powers 
in  our  land — for  we  did  not  take  Manchester,  Birming- 
ham, and  Liverpool  into  account  at  Skernford) — the 
Army  and  the  Church,  I  say,  look  down  a  little  upon 
Medicine  and  the  Law,  as  being  perhaps  more  necessary, 
but  less  select  factors  in  that  great  sum — the  Nation. 
Medicine  and  the  Law  looked  down  very  decidedly  upon 
commercial  wealth,  and  Commerce  in  her  turn  turned  up 
her  nose  at  retail  establishments,  while  one  and  all — 
Church  and  Army,  Law  and  Medicine,  Commerce  in  the 
gross  and  Commerce  in  the  little — united  in  pointing  the 
finger  at  artists,  musicians,  literati,  et  id  omne  genus,  con- 
sidering them,  with  some  few  well-known  and  orthodox 
exceptions,  as  Bohemians,  and  calling  them  "persons" — a 
name  whose  mighty  influence  is  unknown  to  those  who 
never  were  and  never  will  be  "persons."  They  were  a 
class  with  whom  we  had  and  could  have  nothing  in  com- 
mon ;  so  utterly  outside  our  life,  that  we  scarcely  ever 
gave  a  thought  to  their  existence.  We  read  of  pictures, 
and  wished  to  see  them ;  heard  of  musical  wonders,  and 
desired  to  hear  them — as  pictures,  as  compositions.  I 
do  not  think  it  ever  entered  our  heads  to  remember  that  a 
man  with  a  quick  life  throbbing  in  his  veins,  with  feelings, 
hopes,  and  fears  and  thoughts,  painted  the  picture,  and 
that  in  seeing  it  we  also  saw  him — that  a  consciousness, 
if  possible,  yet  more  keen  and  vivid  produced  the  com- 
binations of  sound  which  brought  tears  to  our  eyes  when 
we  heard  "the  band" — beautiful  abstraction! — play  them. 
Certainly  we  never  considered  the  performers  as  anything 
more  than  people  who  could  play — one  who  blew  his 
breath  into  a  brass  tube,  another  into  a  wooden  pipe;  one 
who  scraped  a  small  fiddle  with  fine  strings,  another  who 
scraped  a  big  one  with  coarse  strings. 

I  was  seventeen,  and  not  having  an  original  mind,  had 
up  to  now  judged  things  from  earlier  teachings  and  im- 
pressions. I  do  not  ask  to  be  excused.  I  only  say  that 
I  was  ignorant,  as  ignorant  as  ever  even  a  girl  of  seven- 
teen was.  I  did  not  know  the  amount  of  art  and  culture 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


79 


which  lay  amongst  those  rather  shabby-looking  members 
of  the  Elberthal  stadtische  Kapelle — did  not  know  that 
that  little  cherubic-faced  man,  who  drew  his  bow  so  lov- 
ingly across  his  violin,  had  played  under  Mendelssohn's 
conductorship,  and  could  tell  tales  about  how  the  master 
had  drilled  his  band,  and  what  he  had  said  about  the  first 
performance  of  the  Lobgesang.  The  young  man  to  whom 
I  had  seen  Courvoisier  speaking  was — I  learned  it  later — 
a  performer  to  ravish  the  senses,  a  conductor  in  the  true 
sense — not  a  mere  man  who  waves  a  stick  up  and  down, 
but  one  who  can  put  some  of  the  meaning  of  the  music 
into  his  gestures  and  dominate  his  players.  I  did  not 
know  that  the  musicians  before  me  were  nearly  all  true 
artists,  and  some  of  them  undoubted  gentlemen  to  boot, 
even  if  their  income  averaged  something  under  that  of 
a  skilled  Lancashire  operative.  But  even  if  I  had  known 
it  as  well  as  possible,  and  had  been  aware  that  there  could 
be  nothing  derogatory  in  my  knowing  or  being  known  by 
one  of  them,  I  could  not  have  been  more  wretched  than 
I  was  in  having  been,  as  it  were,  false  to  a  friend.  The 
dreadful  thing  was,  or  ought  to  be — I  could  not  quite 
decide  which — that  such  a  person  should  have  been  my 
friend. 

"  How  he  must  despise  me ! "  I  thought,  my  cheeks 
burning,  my  eyes  fastened  upon  the  play-bill.  "I  owe 
him  ten  shillings.  If  he  likes  he  can  point  me  out  to 
them  all  and  say,  'That  is  an  English  girl — lady  I  can- 
not call  her.  I  found  her  quite  alone  and  lost  at  Koln, 
and  I  did  all  I  could  to  help  her.  I  saved  her  a  great 
deal  of  anxiety  and  inconvenience.  She  was  not  above 
accepting  my  assistance;  she  confided  her  story  very 
freely  to  me ;  she  is  nothing  very  particular — has  nothing 
to  boast  of — no  money,  no  knowledge,  nothing  superior; 
in  fact,  she  is  simple  and  ignorant  to  a  quite  surprising 
extent;  but  she  has  just  cut  me  dead.  What  do  you 
think  of  her  ?  '  " 

Until  the  curtain  went  up  I  sat  in  torture.  When  the 
play  began,  however,  even  my  discomfort  vanished  in  rny 
wonder  at  the  spectacle.  It  was  the  first  I  had  seen. 
Try  to  picture  it,  O  worn-out  and  blase  frequenter  of  play 


go  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

and  opera !  Try  to  realize  the  feelings  of  an  impression- 
able young  person  of  seventeen  when  Lohengrin  was  re- 
vealed to  her  for  the  first  time — Lohengrin,  the  mystic 
knight,  with  the  glamour  of  eld  upon  him — Lohengrin, 
sailing  in  blue  and  silver  like  a  dream,  in  his  swan-drawn 
boat,  stepping  majestic  forth,  and  speaking  in  a  voice  of 
purest  melody,  as  he  thanks  the  bird  and  dismisses  it : 

"  Dahin,  woher  mich  trug  dein  Kahn 
Kehr  wieder  nur  zu  unserm  Gliick  ! 
Drum  sei  getreu  dein  Dienst  gethan, 
Leb  wohl,  leb  wohl,  mein  lieber  Schwan." 

Elsa,  with  the  wonder,  the  gratitude,  the  love,  and  alas ! 
the  weakness  in  her  eyes!  The  astonished  Brabantine 
men  and  women.  They  could  not  have  been  more 
astonished  than  I  was.  It  was  all  perfectly  real  to  me. 
What  did  I  know  .about  the  stage  ?  To  me,  yonder 
figure  in  blue  mantle  and  glittering  armor  was  Lohengrin, 
the  son  of  Percivale,  not  Herr  Siegel,  the  first  tenor  of 
the  company,  who  acted  stiffly,  and  did  not  know  what 
to  do  with  his  legs.  The  lady  in  black  velvet  and 
spangles,  who  gesticulated  in  a  corner,  was  an  Edclfran 
to  me,  as  the  programme  called  her,  not  the  chorus  leader, 
with  two  front  teeth  missing,  an  inartistically  made-up 
countenance,  and  large  feet.  I  sat  through  the  first  act 
with  my  eyes  riveted  upon  the  stage.  What  a  thrill  shot 
through  me  as  the  tenor  embraced  the  soprano,  and 
warbled  melodiously,  "Elsa,  ich  Hebe  Die/if"  My 
mouth  and  eyes  were  wide  open,  1  have  no  doubt,  till  at 
last  the  curtain  fell.  With  a  long  sigh  I  slowly  brought 
my  eyes  down,  and  Lohengrin  vanished  like  a  dream. 
There  was  Eugen  Courvoisier  standing  up — he  had  re- 
sumed the  old  attitude — was  twirling  his  mustache  and 
surveying  the  company.  Some  of  the  other  performers 
were  leaving  the  orchestra  by  two  little  doors.  If  only 
he  would  go  too !  As  I  nervously  contemplated  a  grace- 
fully indifferent  remark  to  Herr  Brinks,  who  sat  next  to 
me,  I  saw  Courvoisier  step  forward.  Was  he,  could  he  be 
going  to  speak  to  me?  I  should  have  deserved  it,  I 
knew,  but  I  felt  as  if  I  should  die  under  the  ordeal.  J 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  81 

sat  preternaturally  still,  and  watched,  as  if  mesmerized, 
the  approach  of  the  musician.  He  spoke  again  to  the 
young  man  whom  I  had  seen  before,  and  they  both 
laughed.  Perhaps  he  had  confided  the  whole  story  to 
him,  and  was  telling  him  to  observe  what  he  was  going  to 
do.  Then  Herr  Courvoisier  tapped  the  young  man  on 
the  shoulder  and  laughed  again,  and  then  he  came  on. 
He  was  not  looking  at  me ;  he  came  up  to  the  boarding, 
leaned  his  elbow  upon  it,  and  said  to  Eustace  Vincent : 

"  Good-evening :  wie  gehfs  Ihnen  ?  " 

Vincent  held  out  his  hand.  "Very  well,  thanks.  And 
you  ?  I  haven't  seen  you  lately." 

"Then  you  haven't  been  at  the  theatre  lately,"  he 
laughed.  He  never  testified  to  me  by  word  or  look  that 
he  had  ever  seen  me  before.  At  last  I  got  to  understand, 
as  his  eyes  repeatedly  fell  upon  me  without  the  slightest 
sign  of  recognition,  that  he  did  not  intend  to  claim  my 
acquaintance.  I  do  not  know  whether  I  was  most 
wretched  or  most  relieved  at  the  discovery.  It  spared 
me  a  great  deal  of  embarrassment;  it  filled  me,  too,  with 
inward  shame  beyond  all  description.  And  then,  too,  I 
was  dismayed  to  find  how  totally  I  had  mistaken  the 
position  of  the  musician.  Vincent  was  talking  eagerly  to 
him.  They  had  moved  a  little  nearer  the  other  end  of 
the  orchestra.  The  young  man,  Helfen,  had  come  up: 
others  had  joined  them.  I,  meanwhile,  sat  still — heard 
every  tone  of  his  voice,  took  in  every  gesture  of  his  head 
or  his  hand,  and  felt  as  I  trust  never  to  feel  again — and 
yet  I  lived  in  some  such  feeling  as  that  for  what  at  least 
seemed  to  me  a  long  time.  What  was  the  feeling  that 
clutched  me — held  me  fast — seemed  to  burn  me  ?  And 
what  was  that  I  heard  ?  Vincent  speaking : 

"  Last  Thursday  week,  Courvoisier — why  didn't  you 
come  ?  We  were  waiting  for  you." 

"  I  missed  the  train." 

Until  now  he  had  been  speaking  German,  but  he  said 
this  distinctly  in  English,  and  I  heard  every  word. 

"  Missed  the  train  ?  "  cried  Vincent  in  his  cracked  voice. 
"Nonsense,  man!     Helfen,  here,  and  Aiekotte  were  in 
time,  aiicl  they  had  been  at  the  Probe  as  much  as  you." 
6 


82  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

"I  was  detained  in  Koln  and  couldn't  get  back  till 
evening,"  said  he.  ''Come  along,  Friedel;  there's  the 
call-bell." 

I  raised  my  eyes — met  his.  I  do  not  know  what  ex- 
pression was  in  mine.  His  never  wavered,  though  he 
looked  at  me  long  and  steadily — no  glance  of  recognition 
— no  sign  still.  I  would  have  risked  the  astonishment  of 
every  one  of  them  now,  for  a  sign  that  he  remembered 
me.  None  was  given. 

Lohengrin  had  no  more  attraction  for  me.  I  felt  in 
pain  that  was  almost  physical,  and  weak  with  excitement 
as  at  last  the  curtain  fell  and  we  left  our  places. 

"You  were  very  quiet,"  said  Vincent,  as  we  walked 
home.  "  Did  you  not  enjoy  it  ?" 

"Very  much,  thank  you.  It  was  very  beautiful,"  said 
I,  faintly. 

"So  Herr  Courvoisier  was  not  at  the  soiree"  said  the 
loud,  rough  voice  of  Anna  Sartorius. 

"  No,"  was  all  Vincent  said. 

"  Did  you  have  anything  new  ?  Was  Herr  von  Francius 
there  too  ?  " 

"Yes;  he  was  there  too." 

I  pondered.  Brinks  whistled  loudly  the  air  of  Elsa's 
Brautztig,  and  we  paced  across  the  Lindenallee.  We  had 
not  many  paces  to  go.  The  lamps  were  lighted,  the 
people  were  thronging  thick  as  in  the  day-time.  The 
air  was  full  of  laughter,  talk,  whistling  and  humming  of 
the  airs  from  the  opera.  My  ear  strained  eagerly  through 
the  confusion.  I  could  have  caught  the  faintest  sound 
of  Courvoisier's  voice  had  it  been  there,  but  it  was  not. 
And  we  came  home ;  Vincent  opened  the  door  with  his 
latch-key,  said,  "It  has  not  been  very  brilliant,  has  it? 
That  tenor  is  a  stick,"  and  we  all  went  to  our  different 
rooms.  It  was  in  such  wise  that  I  met  Eugen  Courvoisier 
for  the  second  time. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

"Will  you  sing?" 

THE  theatre  season  closed  with  that  evening  on  which 
Lohengrin  was  performed.  I  ran  no  risk  of  meeting 
Courvoisier  face  to  face  again  in  that  alanning,  sudden 
manner.  But  the  subject  had  assumed  diseased  propor- 
tions in  my  mind.  I  found  myself  confronted  with  him 
yet,  and  week  after  week.  My  business  in  Elberthal  was 
music — to  learn  as  much  music  and  hear  as  much  music 
as  I  could :  wherever  there  was  music  there  was  also  Eu- 
gen  Courvoisier — naturally.  There  was  only  one  stadt- 
ische  Kapelle  in  Elberthal.  Once  a  week  at  least — each 
Saturday — I  saw  him,  and  he  saw  me  at  the  unfailing  in- 
strumental concert  to  which  every  one  in  the  house  went, 
and  to  absent  myself  from  which  would  instantly  set  every 
one  wondering  what  could  be  my  motive  for  it.  My  us- 
ual companions  were  Clara  Steinmann,  Vincent,  the  En- 
glishman, and  often  Frau  Steinmann  herself.  Anna  Sar- 
torius  and  some  other  girl-students  of  art  usually  brought 
sketch-books,  and  were  far  too  much  occupied  in  making 
studies  or  caricatyres  of  the  audience  to  pay  much  atten- 
tion to  the  music.  The  audience  were,  however,  hard- 
ened; they  were  used  to  it.  Anna  and  her  friends  were 
not  alone  in  the  practice.  There  were  a  dozen  or  more 
artists  or  soi-disant  artists  busily  engaged  with  their  sketch- 
books. The  concert-room  offered  a  rich  field  to  them. 
One  could  at  least  be  sure  of  one  thing — that  they  were 
not  taking  off  the  persons  at  whom  they  looked  most  in- 
tently. There  must  be  quite  a  gallery  hidden  away  in 


84  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

some  old  sketch-books — of  portraits  or  wicked  caricatures 
of  the  audience  that  frequented  the  concerts  of  the  In- 
strumental Mnsik  Vcrein.  1  wonder  where  they  all  are? 
Who  has  them?  What  has  become  of  the  light-hearted 
sketchers  ?  I  often  recall  those  homely  Saturday  evening 
concerts;  the  long,  shabby  saal  with  its  faded  out-of-date 
decorations;  its  rows  of  small  tables  with  the  well-known 
groups  around  them;  the  mixed  and  motley  audience. 
How  easy,  after  a  little  while,  to  pick  out  the  English,  by 
their  look  of  complacent  pleasure  at  the  delightful  ease 
and  unceremoniousness  of  the  whole  affair;  their  gladness 
at  finding  a  public  entertainment  where  one's  clothes  were 
not  obliged  to  be  selected  with  a  view  to  outshining  those 
of  every  one  else  in  the  room;  the  students  shrouded  in  a 
mystery,  sacred  and  impenetrable,  of  tobacco  smoke. 
The  spruce-looking  school-boys  from  the  Gymnasium  and 
Realschule^  the  old  captains  and  generals,  the  FranJcin 
their  daughters,  the  gniiJigcn  Franca  their  wives;  dressed 
in  the  disastrous  plaids,  checks,  and  stripes,  which  some- 
how none  but  German  women  ever  got  hold  of.  Shades 
of  Le  Follet'  What  costumes  there  were  on  young  and 
old  for  an  observing  eye!  What  bonnets,  what  boots, 
what  stupendously  daring  accumulation  of  colors  and 
styles  and  periods  of  dress  crammed  and  piled  on  the  per- 
son of  one  substantial  Fran  Genera/in,  or  Doctorin  or 
Professorin  ! 

The  low  orchestra — the  tall,  slight,  yet  commanding 
figure  of  Von  Francius  on  the  estrade;  his  dark  face  with 
its  indescribable  mixture  of  pride,  impenetrability  and  in- 
souciance; the  musicians  behind  him — every  face  of  them 
as  well  known  to  the  audience  as  those  of  the  audience 
to  them:  it  was  not  a  mere  "concert,"  which  in  England 
is  another  word  for  so  much  expense  and  so  much  vanity 
— it  was  a  gathering  of  friends.  We  knew  the  music  in 
which  the  Kapelle  was  most  at  home;  we  knew  their 
strong  points  and  their  weak  ones;  the  passage  in  the 
Pastoral  Symphony  where  the  second  violins  were  a  little 
weak ;  that  overture  where  the  Blaseinstmmente  came  out 
so  well — the  symphonies  one  heard — the  divine  wealth  of 
undying  art  and  beauty!  Those  days  are  past:  despite 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  85 

what  I  suffered  in  them  they  had  their  joys  for  me.  Yes ; 
I  suffered  at  those  concerts.  I  must  ever  see  the  one  face 
which  for  me  blotted  out  all  others  in  the  room,  and  endure 
the  silent  contempt  which  I  believed  I  saw  upon  it.  Prob- 
ably it  was  my  own  feeling  of  inward  self-contempt  which 
made  me  believe  I  saw  that  expression  there.  His  face 
had  for  me  a  miserable,  basilisk-like  attraction.  When  I 
was  there  and  he  was  there,  I  must  look  at  him  and  en- 
dure the  silent,  smiling  disdain  which  I  at  least  believed 
he  bestowed  upon  me.  How  did  he  contrive  to  do  it? 
How  often  our  eyes  met,  and  every  time  it  happened  he 
looked  me  full  in  the  face,  and  never  would  give  me  the 
faintest  gleam  of  recognition!  It  was  as  though  I  looked 
at  two  diamonds,  which  returned  my  stare  unwinkingly 
and  unseeingly.  I  managed  to  make  myself  thoroughly 
miserable — pale  and  thin  with  anxiety  and  self-reproach. 
I  let  this  man,  and  the  speculations  concerning  him,  take 
up  my  whole  thoughts,  and  I  kept  silence,  because  I 
dreaded  so  intensely  lest  any  question  should  bring  out 
the  truth.  I  smiled  drearily  when  I  thought  that  there 
certainly  was  no  danger  of  any  one  but  Miss  Hallam  ever 
knowing  it,  for  the  only  person  who  could  have  betrayed 
me  chose  now,  of  deliberate  purpose,  to  cut  me  as  com- 
pletely as  I  had  once  cut  him. 

As  if  to  show  very  decidedly  that  he  did  intend  to  cut 
me,  I  met  him  one  day,  not  in  the  street,  but  in  the  house, 
on  the  stairs.  He  sprang  up  the  steps,  two  at  a  time, 
came  to  a  momentary  pause  on  the  landing,  and  looked 
at  me.  No  look  of  surprise,  none  of  recognition.  He 
raised  his  hat,  that  was  nothing;  in  ordinary  politeness  he 
would  have  done  it  had  he  never  seen  me  in  his  life  before. 
The  same  cold,  bright,  hard  glance  fell  upon  me,  keen  as 
an  eagle's  and  as  devoid  of  every  gentle  influence  as  the 
same. 

I  silently  held  out  my  hand. 

He  looked  at  it  for  a  moment,  then  with  a  grave  cool- 
ness which  chilled  me  to  the  soul,  murmured  something 
about  "r.ot  having  the  honor,"  bowed  slightly,  and  step- 
ping forward,  walked  into  Vincent's  room. 

1  was  going  to  the  room  in  which  my  piano  stood, 


86  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

where  I  had  my  music  lessons,  for  they  had  told  me  that 
Herr  von  Francius  was  waiting.  I  looked  at  him  as  I 
went  into  the  room.  How  different  he  was  from  that 
other  man:  darker,  more  secret,  more  scornful-looking, 
with  not  less  power,  but  so  much  less  benevolence. 

I  was  distrait,  and  sang  exceedingly  ill.  We  had  been  go- 
ing through  the  solo  sopran  parts  of  the  Paradise  Lost. 
I  believe  I  sang  vilely  that  morning.  I  was  not  thinking 
of  Eva's  sin  and  the  serpent,  but  of  other  things,  which, 
despite  the  story  related  in  the  book  of  Genesis,  touched 
me  more  nearly.  Several  times  already  had  he  made  me 
sing  through  Eva's  stammering  answer  to  her  God's  ques- 
tion: 

"Ah,  Lord !  .  .  .   The  Serpent ! 
The  beautiful,  glittering  Serpent, 
With  his  beautiful,  glittering  words, 
He,  Lord,  did  lead  astray 
The  weak  Woman  !  " 

"Bah.1"  exclaimed  Von  Francius,  when  I  had  sung  it 
some  three  or  four  times,  each  time  worse,  each  time  more 
distractedly.  He  flung  the  music  upon  the  floor,  and  his 
eyes  flashed,  startling  me  from  my  uneasy  thoughts  back 
to  the  present.  He  was  looking  at  me  with  a  dark  cloud 
upon  his  face.  I  stared,  stooped  meekly,  and  picked  up 
the  music. 

"  Friiu/eint  what  are  you  dreaming  about  ?  "  he  asked, 
impatiently.  "You  are  not  singing  Eva's  shame  and 
dawning  terror  as  she  feels  herself  undone.  You  are  sing- 
ing— and  badly,  too — a  mere  sentimental  song,  such  as 
any  school-girl  might  stumble  through.  I  am  ashamed 
of  you." 

"I — I,"  stammered  I,  crimsoning,  and  ashamed  for 
myself  too. 

"You  were  thinking  of  something  else,"  he  said,  his 
brow  clearing  a  little.  "JVa/  it  comes  so  sometimes. 
Something  has  happened  to  distract  your  attention.  The 
amiable  Miss  Hallam  has  been  a  little  more  amiable  than 
usual." 

"  No." 

"  Well,  well.     'S  ist  mir  egal.     But  now,  as  you  have 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  87 

wasted  half  an  hour  in  vanity  and  vexation,  will  you  be 
good  enough  to  let  your  thoughts  return  here  to  me  and 
to  your  duty  ?  or  else — I  must  go,  and  leave  the  lesson 
till  you  are  in  the  right  voice  again." 

"  I  am  all  right — try  me,"  said  I,  my  pride  rising  in 
arms  as  I  thought  of  Courvoisier's  behavior  a  short  time 
ago. 

"Very  well.  Now.  You  are  Eva,  please  remember, 
the  first  woman,  and  you  have  gone  wrong.  Think  of 
who  is  questioning  you,  and — " 

"  Oh  yes,  yes,  I  know.     Please  begin." 

He  began  the  accompaniment,  and  I  sang  for  the  fifth 
time  Eva's  scattered  notes  of  shame  and  excuse. 

"  Brava ! "  said  he,  when  I  had  finished,  and  I  was  the 
more  startled  as  he  had  never  before  given  me  the  faint- 
est sign  of  approval,  but  had  found  such  constant  fault 
with  me,  that  I  usually  had  a  fit  of  weeping  after  my 
lesson ;  weeping  with  rage  and  disappointment  at  my 
own  shortcomings. 

"  At  last  you  know  what  it  means,"  said  he.  "  I  always 
told  you  your  forte  was  dramatic  singing." 

"  Dramatic !     But  this  is  an  oratorio." 

"  It  may  be  called  an  oratorio,  but  it  is  a  drama  all  the 
same.  What  more  dramatic,  for  instance,  than  what  you 
have  just  sung,  and  all  that  goes  before  ?  Now  suppose 
we  go  on.  I  will  take  Adam." 

Having  given  myself  up  to  the  music  I  sang  my  best 
with  earnestness.  When  we  had  finished  Von  Francius 
closed  the  book,  looked  at  me,  and  said : 

"  Will  you  sing  the  Eva  music  at  the  concert  ?  " 

«//" 

He  bowed  silently,  and  still  kept  his  eyes  fixed  upon 
my  face,  as  if  to  say,  "  Refuse  if  you  dare ! " 

"I — I'm  afraid  I  should  make  such  a  mess  of  it,"  I 
murmured  at  last. 

"Why  any  more  than  to-day  ?  " 

"Oh!  but  all  the  people!"  said  I,  expostulating;  "it 
is  so  different." 

He  gave  a  little  laugh  of  some  amusement. 

"  How  odd !  and  yet  how  like  you !  "  said  he.     "  Do 


88  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

you  suppose  that  the  people  who  will  be  at  the  concert 
will  be  half  as  much  alive  to  your  defects  as  I  am  ?  If 
you  can  sing  before  me,  surely  you  can  sing  before  so 
many  rows  of — " 

"  Cabbages  ?     I  wish  I  could  think  they  were." 

"  Nonsense !  What  would  be  the  use,  where  the 
pleasure,  in  singing  to  cabbages  ?  I  mean  simply  inhab- 
itants of  Elberthal.  What  can  there  be  so  formidable 
about  them  ?  " 

I  murmured  something. 

"Well,  will  you  do  it?" 

"  I  am  sure  I  should  break  down,"  said  I,  trying  to  find 
some  sign  of  relenting  in  his  eyes.  I  discovered  none. 
He  was'not  waiting  to  hear  whether  I  said  "  yes  "  or  "  no ; " 
he  was  waiting  until  I  said  "  yes." 

"  If  you  did,"  he  replied  with  a  friendly  smile,  "  I 
should  never  teach  you  another  note." 

"  Why  not  ?  " 

"Because  you  would  be  a  coward,  and  not  worth 
teaching." 

"  But  Miss  Hallam  ?  " 

"  Leave  her  to  me." 

I  still  hesitated. 

"It  is  the  premier  pas  qui  eoiite"  said  he,  still  keeping  a 
friendly  but  determined  gaze  upon  my  undecided  face. 

"  I  want  to  accustom  you  to  appearing  in  public,"  he 
added.  "  By  degrees,  you  know.  There  is  nothing  un- 
usual in  Germany  for  one  in  your  position  to  sing  in  such 
a  concert." 

"  I  was  not  thinking  of  that ;  but  that  it  is  impossible 
that  I  can  sing  well  enough — " 

"You  sing  well  enough  for  my  purpose.  You  will  be 
amazed  to  find  what  an  impetus  to  your  studies,  and  what 
a  fillip  to  your  industry  will  be  given  by  once  singing  be- 
fore a  number  of  other  people.  And  then,  on  the  stage — " 

"  But  I  am  not  going  on  the  stage." 

"  I  think  you  are.  At  least,  if  you  do  otherwise  you 
will  do  wrong.  You  have  gifts  which  are  in  themselves  a 
responsibility." 

"I — gifts — what  gifts?"  I    asked,   incredulously.     "I 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


89 


am  as  stupid  as  a  donkey.  My  sisters  always  said  so, 
and  sisters  are  sure  to  know;  you  may  trust  them  for 
that." 

"  Then  you  will  take  the  sopran  solos  ?  " 

"  Do  you  think  I  can  ?  " 

"  I  don't  think  you  can ;  I  say  you  must.  I  will  call 
upon  Miss  Hallam  this  afternoon.  And  the  gage — fee — 
what  you  call  it  ? — is  fifty  thalers." 

'•'•What!"  I  cried,  my  whole  attitude  changing  to 
one  of  greedy  expectation.  "  Shall  I  be  paid  ?  " 

11  Why,  natilrlich"  said  he,  turning  over  sheets  of  music, 
and  averting  his  face  to  hide  a  smile. 

"  Oh !  then  I  will  sing." 

"  Good !  Only  please  to  remember  that  it  is  my  con- 
cert, and  I  am  responsible  for  the  soloists ;  and  pray 
think  rather  more  about  the  beautiful  glittering  serpent 
than  about  the  beautiful  glittering  thalers." 

"  I  can  think  about  both,"  was  my  unholy,  time-serv- 
ing reply. 

Fifty  thalers !     Untold  gold  ! 


CHAPTER  VII. 

"Prinz  Eugen,  der  edle  Ritter." 

IT  was  the  evening  of  the  Hauptprobe,  a  fine  moonlight 
night  in  the  middle  of  May — a  month  since  I  had 
come  to  Elberthal,  and  it  seemed  so  much,  so  very  much 
more. 

To  my  astonishment — and  far  from  agreeable  astonish- 
ment— Anna  Sartorius  informed  me  of  her  intention  to 
accompany  me  to  the  Probe.  I  put  objections  in  her 
way  as  well  as  I  knew  how,  and  said  I  did  not  think  out- 
siders were  admitted.  She  laughed,  and  said  : 

"That  is  too  funny,  that  you  should  instruct  me  in  such 
things.  Why,  I  have  a  ticket  for  all  the  Proben,  as  any 
one  can  have  who  chooses  to  pay  two  thalers  at  the 
casse.  I  have  a  mind  to  hear  this.  They  say  the  orches- 
tra are  going  to  rebel  against  Von  Francius.  And  I  am 
going  to  the  concert  to-morrow,  too.  One  cannot  hear 
too  much  of  such  fine  music ;  and  when  one's  friend 
sings,  too — " 

"What  friend  of  yours  is  going  to  sing?"  I  inquired, 
coldly. 

"Why,  you,  you  allerliebster  klciner  Engel"  said  she, 
in  a  tone  of  familiarity,  to  which  I  strongly  objected. 

I  could  say  no  more  against  her  going,  but  certainly 
displayed  no  enthusiastic  desire  for  her  company. 

The  Probe,  we  found,  was  to  be  in  the  great  saal;  it 
was  half-lighted,  and  there  were  perhaps  some  fifty  people, 
holders  of  Probe-tickets,  seated  in  the  parquet. 

"You  are  going  to  sing  well  to-night,"  said  Von  Fran- 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  9! 

cius,  as  he  handed  me  up  the  steps — "for  my  sake  and 
your  own,  nicht  wahr  ?  " 

"  I  will  try,"  said  I,  looking  round  the  great  orchestra, 
and  seeing  how  full  it  was — so  many  fresh  faces,  both  in 
chorus  and  orchestra. 

And  as  I  looked,  I  saw  Courvoisier  come  in  by  the 
little  door  at  the  top  of  the  orchestra  steps  and  descend 
to  his  place.  His  face  was  clouded — very  clouded;  I 
had  never  seen  him  look  thus  before.  He  had  no  smile 
for  those  who  greeted  him.  As  he  took  his  place  beside 
Helfen,  and  the  latter  asked  him  some  question,  he  stared 
absently  at  him,  then  answered  with  a  look  of  absence 
and  weariness. 

"Herr  Courvoisier,"  said  Von  Francius — and  I,  being 
near,  heard  the  whole  dialogue — "you  always  allow  your- 
self to  be  waited  for." 

Courvoisier  glanced  up.  I  with  a  new,  sudden  interest, 
watched  the  behavior  of  the  two  men.  In  the  face  of 
Von  Francius  I  thought  to  discover  dislike,  contempt. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon ;  I  was  detained,"  answered  Cour- 
voisier, composedly. 

"  It  is  unfortunate  that  you  should  be  so  often  detained 
at  the  time  when  your  work  should  be  beginning." 

Unmoved  and  unchanging,  Courvoisier  heard  and  sub- 
mitted to  the  words,  and  to  the  tone  in  which  they  were 
spoken — sarcastic,  sneering,  and  unbelieving. 

"  Now  we  will  begin,"  pursued  Von  Francius,  with  a 
disagreeable  smile,  as  he  rapped  with  his  baton  upon  the 
rail.  I  looked  at  Courvoisier — looked  at  his  friend, 
Friedhelm  Helfen.  The  former  was  sitting  as  quietly  as 
possible,  rather  pale,  and  with  the  same  clouded  look, 
but  not  deeper  than  before ;  the  latter  was  flushed,  and 
eyed  Von  Francius  with  no  friendly  glance. 

There  seemed  a  kind  of  slumbering  storm  in  the  air. 
There  was  none  of  the  lively  discussion  usual  at  the  Proben. 
Courvoisier,  first  of  the  first  violins,  and  from  whom 
all  the  others  seemed  to  take  their  tone,  sat  silent,  grave 
and  still.  Von  Francius,  though  quiet,  was  biting.  I 
felt  afraid  of  him.  Something  must  have  happened  to 
put  him  into  that  evil  mood. 


92 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


My  part  did  not  come  until  late  in  the  second  part 
of  the  oratorio.  I  had  almost  forgotten  that  I  was  to 
sing  at  all,  and  was  watching  Von  Francius  and  listening 
to  his  sharp  speeches.  I  remembered  what  Anna  Sar- 
torius  had  said  in  describing  this  Hauptprobe  to  me.  It 
was  all  just  as  she  had  said.  He  was  severe;  his 
speeches  roused  the  phlegmatic  blood,  set  the  professional 
instrumentalists  laughing  at  their  amateur  co-operators, 
but  provoked  no  reply  or  resentment.  It  was  extraor- 
dinary, the  effect  of  this  man's  will  upon  those  he  had  to 
do  with — upon  women  in  particular. 

There  was  one  haughty-looking  blonde — a  Swede — 
tall,  majestic,  with  long  yellow  curls,  and  a  face  full  of 
pride  and  high  temper,  who  gave  herself  decided  airs, 
and  trusted  to  her  beauty  and  insolence  to  carry  off  cer- 
tain radical  defects  of  harshness  of  voice  and  want  of 
ear.  I  never  forgot  how  she  stared  me  down  from  head 
to  foot  on  the  occasion  of  my  first  appearance  alone,  as 
if  to  say,  "  What  do  you  want  here  ?  " 

It  was  in  vain  that  she  looked  haughty  and  handsome. 
Addressing  her  as  Fraulein  Hiilstrom,  Von  Francius  gave 
her  a  sharp  lecture,  imitated  the  effect  of  her  voice  in  a 
particularly  soft  passage  with  ludicrous  accuracy.  The 
rest  of  the  chorus  was  tittering  audibly,  the  musicians, 
with  the  exception  of  Courvoisier  and  his  friend,  nudging 
each  other  and  smiling.  She  bridled  haughtily,  Hashed  a 
furious  glance  at  her  mentor,  grew  crimson,  received  a 
sarcastic  smile  which  baffled  her,  and  subsided  again. 

So  it  was  with  them  all.  His  blame  was 'plentiful;  his 
praise  so  rare  as  to  be  almost  an  unknown  quantity.  His 
chorus  and  orchestra  were  famed  for  the  minute  perfec- 
tion and  precision  of  their  play  and  singing.  Perhaps 
the  performance  lacked  something  else — passion,  color. 
Von  Francius,  at  that  time  at  least,  was  no  genius,  though 
his  talent,  his  power,  and  his  method  were  undeniably 
great.  He  was,  however,  not  popular — not  the.  Harold, 
the  "beloved  leader"  of  his  people. 

It  was  to-night  that  I  was  first  shown  how  all  was  not 
smooth  for  him  ;  that  in  this  art  union  there  were  splits — 
41  little  rifts  within  the  lute,"  which,  should  they  extend; 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


93 


might  literally  in  the  end  "make  the  music  mute."  I 
heard  whispers  around  me.  "  Herr  von  Francius  is  an- 
gry."— u Nicht  wahr?" — "Herr  Courvoisier  looks  angry 
too." — "Yes,  he  does." — "There  will  be  an  open  quarrel 
there  soon." — "I  think  so." — "They  are  both  clever; 
one  should  be  less  clever  than  the  other." — "They  are  so 
opposed." — "Yes.  They  say  Courvoisier  has  a  party 
of  his  own,  and  that  all  the  orchestra  are  on  his  side." — 
" So/"  in  accents  of  curiosity  and  astonishment. — "3^ 
U'oJil! .  And  that  if  Von  Francius  does  not  mind,  he  will 
see  Herr  Courvoisier  in  his  place,"  etc.,  etc.,  without  end. 
All  which  excited  me  much,  as  the  first  glimpse  into  the 
affairs  of  those  about  whom  we  think  much  and  know 
little  (a  form  of  life  well  known  to  women  in  general) 
always  does  interest  us. 

These  things  made  me  forget  to  be  nervous  or  anxious. 
I  saw  myself  now  as  part  of  the  whole,  a  unit  in  the  sum 
of 'a  life  which  interested  me.  Von  Francius  gave  me  a 
sign  of  approval  when  I  had  finished,  but  it  was  a  me- 
chanical one.  He  was  thinking  of  other  things. 

The  Probe  was  over.  I  walked  slowly  down  the  room 
looking  for  Anna  Sartorius,  more  out  of  politeness  than 
because  I  wished  for  her  company.  I  was  relieved  to 
find  that  she  had  already  gone,  probably  not  finding  all 
the  entertainment  she  expected,  and  I  was  able,  with  a 
good  conscience,  to  take  my  way  home  alone. 

My  way  home !  not  yet.  I  was  to  live  through  some- 
thing before  I  could  take  my  way  home. 

I  went  out  of  the  large  saal  through  the  long  veranda 
into  the  street.  A  flood  of  moonlight  silvered  it.  There 
was  a  laughing,  chattering  crowd  about  me — all  the 
chorus;  men  and  girls,  going  to  their  homes  or  their 
lodgings,  in  ones  or  twos,  or  in  large  cheerful  groups. 
Almost  opposite  the  Tonhalle  was  a  tall  house,  one  of  a 
row,  and  of  this  house  the  lowest  floor  was  used  as  a 
shop  for  antiquities,  curiosities,  and  a  thousand  odds  and 
ends  useful  or  beautiful  to  artists;  costumes,  suits  of 
armor,  old  china,  anything  and  everything.  The  window 
was  yet  lighted.  As  I  paused  for  a  moment  before  taking 
my  homeward  way,  I  saw  two  men  cross  the  moonlit 


94  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

street  and  go  in  at  the  open  door  of  the  shop.  One  was 
Courvoisier ;  in  the  other  I  thought  to  recognize  Fried- 
helm  Helfen,  but  was  not  quite  sure  about  it.  They  did 
not  go  into  the  shop,  as  I  saw  by  the  bright  large  lamp 
that  burned  within,  but  along  the  passage  and  up  the 
stairs.  I  followed  them,  resolutely  beating  down  shyness, 
unwillingness,  timidity.  My  reluctant  steps  took  me  to 
the  window  of  the  antiquity  shop,  and  I  stood  looking  in 
before  I  could  make  up  my  mind  to  enter.  Bits  of  rococo 
ware  stood  in  the  window,  majolica  jugs,  chased  metal 
dishes  and  bowls,  bits  of  renaissance-work,  tapestry,  car- 
pet, a  helm  with  the  vizor  up,  gaping  at  me  as  if  tired 
of  being  there.  I  slowly  drew  my  purse  from  my  pocket, 
put  together  three  thalers  and  a  ten  groschen-piece,  and 
with  lingering,  unwilling  steps,  entered  the  shop.  A 
pretty  young  woman  in  a  quaint  dress,  which  somehow 
harmonized  with  the  place,  came  forward.  She  looked 
at  me  as  if  wondering  what  I  could  possibly  want.  My 
very  agitation  gave  calmness  to  my  voice  as  I  inquired : 

"  Does  Herr  Courvoisier,  a  Musiker,  live  here  ?  " 

"  Ja  wohl!"  answered  the  young  woman,  with  a  look 
of  still  greater  surprise.  "On  the  third  etage,  straight 
up  stairs.  The  name  is  on  the  door." 

I  turned  away,  and  went  slowly  up  the  steep  wooden 
uncarpeted  staircase.  On  the  first  landing  a  door  opened 
at  the  sound  of  my  footsteps,  and  a  head  was  popped 
out — a  rough,  fuzzy  head,  with  a  pale,  eager-looking  face 
under  the  bush  of  hair. 

"  Ugh ! "  said  the  owner  of  this  amiable  visage,  and  shut 
the  door  with  a  bang.  I  looked  at  the  plate  upon  it ;  it 
bore  the  legend,  Hermann  Duntze,  Maler.  To  the  sec- 
ond etage.  Another  door — another  plate:  Bernhardt 
Knoop,  Maler.  The  house  seemed  to  be  a  resort  of  ar- 
tists. There  was  a  lamp  burning  on  each  landing ;  and 
now,  at  last,  with  breath  and  heart  alike  failing,  I  ascended 
the  last  flight  of  stairs,  and  found  myself  upon  the  highest 
etage  before  another  door,  on  which  was  roughly  painted 
up  En  gen  Courvoisier.  I  looked  at  it  with  my  heart  beat- 
ing suffocatingly.  Some  one  had  scribbled  in  red  chalk 
beneath  the  Christian  name,  Prinz  Eugcn,  der  edle  Ritter. 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


95 


Had  it  been  done  in  jest  or  earnest  ?  I  wondered,  and 
then  knocked.  Such  a  knock ! 

"Herein.'" 

I  opened  the  door,  and  stepped  into  a  large,  long,  low 
room.  On  the  table,  in  the  centre,  burned  a  lamp,  and 
sitting  there,  with  the  light  falling  upon  his  earnest  young 
face,  was  Helfen,  the  violinist,  and  near  to  him  sat  Cour- 
voisier,  with  a  child  upon  his  knee,  a  little  lad  with  im- 
mense dark  eyes,  tumbled  black  hair,  and  flushed,  just- 
awakened  face.  He  was  clad  in  his  night-dress  and  a  lit- 
tle red  dressing-gown,  and  looked  like  a  spot  of  almost  fe- 
verish, quite  tropic  brightness,  in  contrast  with  the  grave, 
pale  face  which  bent  over  him.  Courvoisier  held  the  two 
delicate  little  hands  in  one  of  his  own,  and  was  looking 
down  with  love  unutterable  upon  the  beautiful,  daz2ling 
child-face.  Despite  the  different  complexion  and  a  differ- 
ent style  of  feature  too,  there  was  so  great  a  likeness  in  the 
two  faces,  particularly  in  the  broad,  noble  brow,  as  to  leave 
no  doubt  of  the  relationship.  My  musician  and  the  boy 
were  father  and  son. 

Courvoisier  looked  up  as  I  came  in.  For  one  half  mo- 
ment there  leaped  into  his  eyes  a  look  of  surprise  and  of 
something  more.  If  it  had  lasted  a  second  longer  I  could 
have  sworn  it  was  welcome — then  it  was  gone.  He  rose, 
turned  the  child  over  to  Helfen,  saying,  "One  moment, 
Friedel,"  then  turned  to  me  as  to  some  stranger  who  had 
come  on  an  errand  as  yet  unknown  to  him,  and  did  not 
speak.  The  little  one,  from  Helfen's  knee,  stared  at  me 
with  large,  solemn  eyes,  and  Helfen  himself  looked  scarce- 
ly less  impressed. 

I  have  no  doubt  I  looked  frightened — I  felt  so — fright- 
ened out  of  my  senses.  I  came  tremulously  forward,  and 
offering  my  pieces  of  silver,  said  in  the  smallest  voice 
which  I  had  ever  used : 

"  I  have  come  to  pay  my  debt.  I  did  not  know  where 
you  lived,  or  I  should  have  done  it  long  before." 

He  made  no  motion  to  take  the  money,  but  said — I  al- 
most started,  so  altered  was  the  voice  from  that  of  my 
frank  companion  at  Koln,  to  an  icy  coldness  of  ceremony: 

"Mem  Frdulein,  I  do  not  understand." 


96 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


"You — you — the  things  you  paid  for.  Do  you  not  re- 
member me  ?  " 

"Remember  a  lady  who  has  intimated  that  she  wishes 
me  to  forget  her  ?  No,  I  do  not." 

What  a  horribly  complicated  revenge !  thought  I,  as  I 
said,  ever  lower  and  lower,  more  and  more  shamefacedly, 
while  the  young  violinist  sat  with  the  child  on  his  knee, 
and  his  soft  brown  eyes  staring  at  me  in  wonder : 

"  I  think  you  must  remember.  You  helped  me  at  Koln, 
and  you  paid  for  my  ticket  to  Elberthal,  and  for  some- 
thing that  I  had  at  the  hotel.  You  told  me  that  was  what 
I  owed  you." 

I  again  tendered  the  money ;  again  he  made  no  effort 
to  receive  it,  but  said  : 

"  I  am  sorry  that  I  do  not  understand  to  what  you  re- 
fer. I  only  know  it  is  impossible  that  I  could  ever  have 
told  you  you  owed  me  three  thalers,  or  three  anything,  or 
that  there  could,  under  any  circumstances,  be  any  ques- 
tion of  money  between  you  and  me.  Suppose  we  con- 
sider the  topic  at  an  end." 

Such  a  voice  of  ice,  and  such  a  manner,  to  chill  the 
boldest  heart,  I  had  never  yet  encountered.  The  cool, 
unspeakable  disdain  cut  me  to  the  quick. 

"You  have  no  right  to  refuse  the  money,"  said  I,  des- 
perately. "You  have  no  right  to  insult  me  by — by — " 
An  appropriate  peroration  refused  itself. 

Again  the  sweet,  proud,  courteous  smile ;  not  only  cour- 
teous, but  courtly ;  again  the  icy  little  bow  of  the  head, 
which  would  have  done  credit  to  a  prince  in  displeasure, 
and  which  yet  had  the  deference  due  from  a  gentleman 
to  a  lady. 

"You  will  excuse  the  semblance  of  rudeness  which  may 
appear  if  I  say  that  if  you  unfortunately  are  not  of  a  very 
decided  disposition,  I  am.  It  is  impossible  that  I  should 
ever  have  the  slightest  intercourse  with  a  lady  who  has 
once  unequivocally  refused  my  acquaintance.  The  lady 
may  honor  me  by  changing  her  mind ;  I  am  sorry  that  I 
cannot  respond.  I  do  not  change  mine." 

"You  must  let  us  part  on  equal  terms,"  I  reiterated. 
"It  is  unjust — " 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN: 


97 


"  Yourself  closed  all  possibility  of  the  faintest  attempt  at 
further  acquaintance,  mein  Frdulein.  The  matter  is  at  an 
end." 

"  Herr  Courvoisier,  I — " 

"At  an  end,"  he  repeated  calmly,  gently,  looking  at  me 
as  he  had  often  looked  at  me  since  the  night  of  Lohen- 
grin, with  a  glance  that  baffled  and  chilled  me. 

"I  wished  to  apologize — " 

"For  what?"  he  inquired,  with  the  faintest  possible 
look  of  indifferent  surprise. 

"  For  my  rudeness — my  surprise — I — " 

"  You  refer  to  one  evening  at  the  opera.  You  exercised 
your  privilege,  as  a  lady,  of  closing  an  acquaintance  which 
you  did  not  wish  to  renew.  I  now  exercise  mine,  as  a 
gentleman,  of  saying  that  I  choose  to  abide  by  that  de- 
cision, now  and  always." 

I  was  surprised.  Despite  my  own  apologetic  frame  of 
mind,  I  was  surprised  at  his  hardness ;  at  the  narrowness 
and  ungenerosity  which  could  so  determinedly  shut  the  door 
in  the  face  of  an  humble  penitent  like  me.  He  must  see 
how  I  had  repented  the  stupid  slip  I  had  made ;  he  must 
see  how  I  desired  to  atone  for  it  It  was  not  a  slip  of  the 
kind  one  would  name  irreparable,  and  yet  he  behaved  to 
me  as  if  I  had  committed  a  crime ;  froze  me  with  looks 
and  words.  Was  he  so  self-conscious  and  so  vain  that 
he  could  not  get  over  that  small  slight  to  his  self-con- 
sequence, committed  in  haste  and  confusion  by  an  igno- 
rant girl  ?  Even  then,  even  in  that  moment  I  asked  my- 
self these  questions,  my  astonishment  being  almost  as 
great  as  my  pain,  for  it  was  the  very  reverse,  the  very  op- 
posite of  what  I  had  pictured  to  myself.  Once  let  me  see 
him  and  speak  to  him,  I  had  said  to  myself,  and  it  would 
be  all  right;  every  lineament  of  his  face,  every  tone  of  his 
voice,  bespoke  a  frank,  generous  nature — one  that  could 
forgive.  Alas !  and  alas !  this  was  the  truth ! 

He  had  come  to  the  door ;  he  stood  by  it  now,  holding 
it  open,  looking  at  me  so  courteously,  so  deferentially, 
with  a  manner  of  one  who  had  been  a  gentleman  and  lived 
with  gentlemen  all  his  life,  but  in  a  way  which  at  the  same 
time  ordered  me  out  as  plainly  'as  possible. 
7 


98 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


I  went  to  the  door.  I  could  no  longer  stand  under 
that  chilling  glance,  nor  endure  the  cool,  polished  con- 
tempt of  the  manner.  I  behaved  by  no  means  heroically; 
neither  flung  my  head  back,  nor  muttered  any  defiance, 
nor  in  any  way  proved  myself  a  person  of  spirit.  All  I 
could  do  was  to  look  appealingly  into  his  face ;  to  search 
the  bright,  steady  eyes,  without  finding  in  them  any  hint 
of  softening  or  relenting. 

"  Will  you  not  take  it  please  /"'I  asked  in  a  quivering 
voice  and  with  trembling  lips. 

"Impossible,  mem  Frdulein"  with  the  same  chilly  little 
bow  as  before. 

Struggling  to  repress  my  tears,  I  said  no  more,  but 
passed  out,  cut  to  the  heart.  The  door  was  closed  gently 
behind  me.  I  felt  as  if  it  had  closed  upon  a  bright 
belief  of  my  youth.  I  leaned  for  a  moment  against  the 
passage  wall  and  pressed  my  hand  against  my  eyes. 
From  within  came  the  sound  of  a  child's  voice,  "  Mein 
Fiafer,"  and  the  soft,  deep  murmur  of  Eugen's  answer; 
then  I  went  down-stairs  and  into  the  open  street. 

That  hated,  hateful  three  thalers  ten  groschen  were  still 
clasped  in  my  hand.  What  was  I  to  do  with  it  ?  Throw 
it  into  the  Rhine,  and  wash  it  away  forever  ?  Give  it  to 
some  one  in  need  ?  Fling  it  into  the  gutter  ?  Send  it 
him  by  post  ?  I  dismissed  that  idea  for  what  it  was  worth. 
No;  I  would  obey  his  prohibition.  I  would  keep  it — 
those  very  coins,  and  when  I  felt  inclined  to  be  proud  and 
conceited  about  anything  on  my  own  account,  or  disposed 
to  put  down  superhuman  charms  to  the  account  of  others, 
I  would  go  and  look  at  them,  and  they  would  preach  me 
eloquent  sermons. 

As  I  went  into  the  house,  up  the  stairs  to  my  room,  the 
front  door  opened  again  and  Anna  Sartorius  overtook  me. 

"I  thought  you  had  left  the  Probe?"  said  I,  staring  at 
her. 

"  So  I  had,  Herzchen?  said  she,  with  her  usual  ambig- 
uous, mocking  laugh;  "but  I  was  not  compelled  to  come 
home,  like  a  good  little  girl,  the  moment  I  came  out  of 
the  Tonhalle.  I  have  been  visiting  a  friend.  But  where 
have  you  been,  for  the  Probe  must  have  been  over  for 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  g9 

some  time?  We  heard  the  people  go  past;  indeed,  some 
of  them  were  staying  in  the  house  where  I  was.  Did 
you  take  a  walk  in  the  moonlight  ?  " 

"Good-night,"  said  I,  too  weary  and  too  indifferent 
even  to  answer  her. 

"It  must  have  been  a  tiring  walk;  you  seem  weary, 
quite  ermiidet"  said  she,  mockingly,  and  I  made  no  an- 
swer. 

"A  Hauptprobe  is  a  dismal  thing,  after  all,"  she  called 
out  to  me  from  the  top  of  the  stairs. 

From  my  inmost  heart  I  agreed  with  her. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

KAFFEEKLATSCH. 

" Phittis.     I  want  none  o'  thy  friendship! 
Lesbia.     Then  take  my  enmity !  " 

TTTHEN  a  number  of  ladies  meet  together  to  dis- 
Yv  cuss  matters  of  importance,  we  call  it  'Kaffee- 
klatsch'" Courvoisier  had  said  to  me  on  that  never-forgot- 
ten afternoon  of  my  adventure  at  Koln. 

It  was  my  first  Kaffeeklatsch  which,  in  a  measure,  de- 
cided my  destiny.  Hitherto,  that  is,  up  to  the  end  of 
June,  I  had  not  been  at  any  entertainment  of  this  kind. 
At  last  there  came  an  invitation  to  Frau  Steinmann  and 
to  Anna  Sartorius,  to  assist  at  a  "  Coffee  "  of  unusual  mag- 
nitude, and  Frau  Steinmann  suggested  that  I  should  go 
with  them  and  see  what  it  was  like.  Nothing  loath,  I  con- 
sented. 

"Bring  some  work,"  said  Anna  Sartorius  to  me,  "or 
you  will  find  it  langweilig — slow,  I  mean." 

"  Shall  we  not  have  some  music  ?  " 

"Music,  yes,  the  sweetest  of  all — that  of  our  own 
tongues.  You  shall  hear  every  one's  candid  opinion  of 
every  one  else — present  company  always  excepted,  and 
you  will  see  what  the  state  of  Elberthal  society  really  is — 
present  company  still  excepted.  By  a  very  strange  chance 
the  ladies  who  meet  at  a  Klatsch  are  always  good,  pious, 
virtuous,  and,  above  all,  charitable.  It  is  wonderful  how 
well  we  manage  to  keep  the  black  sheep  out,  and  have 
nothing  but  lambs  immaculate." 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  IOi 

"Oh  don't!" 

"Oh,  bah!  I  know  the  Elberthal  Klatschcrei.  It  has 
picked  me  to  pieces  many  a  time.  After  you  have  par- 
taken to-day  of  its  coffee  and  its  cakes,  it  will  pick  you  to 
pieces." 

"  But,"  said  I,  arranging  the  ruffles  of  my  very  best 
frock,  which  I  had  been  told  it  was  de  rigueur  to  wear,  "  I 
thought  women  never  gossiped  so  much  amongst  men." 

Fraulein  Sartorius  laughed  loud  and  long. 

"  The  men !  Du  meine  Giite!  Men  at  a  Kaffeeklatsch  ! 
Show  me  the  one  that  a  man  dare  even  look  into,  and  I'll 
crown  you — and  him  too — with  laurel,  and  bay,  and  the 
wild  parsley.  A  man  at  a  Kaffee — mag  Gott  es  be- 
wahren  !  " 

"  Oh ! "  said  I,  half  disappointed,  and  with  a  very  poor, 
mean  sense  of  dissatisfaction  at  having  put  on  my  pretty 
new  dress  for  the  first  time  only  for  the  edification  of  a 
number  of  virulent  gossips. 

"  Men ! "  she  reiterated  with  a  harsh  laugh  as  we  walked 
towards  the  Goldsteinstrasse,  our  destination.  "Men — 
no.  We  despise  their  company,  you  see.  We  only  talk 
about  them  directly  or  indirectly  from  the  moment  of 
meeting  to  that  of  parting." 

"  I'm  sorry  there  are  no  gentlemen,"  said  I,  and  I  was. 
I  felt  I  looked  well. 

Arrived  at  the  scene  of  the  Kaffee,  we  were  conducted 
to  a  bedroom  where  we  laid  aside  our  hats  and  mantles. 
I  was  standing  before  the  glass,  drawing  a  comb  through 
my  upturned  hair,  and  contemplating  with  irrepressible 
satisfaction  the  delicate  lavender  hue  of  my  dress,  when  I 
suddenly  saw  reflected  behind  me  the  dark,  harshly-cut 
face  of  Anna  Sartorius.  She  started  slightly;  then  said, 
with  a  laugh  which  had  in  it  something  a  little  forced : 

"We  are  a  contrast,  aren't  we?  Beauty  and  the  Beast, 
one  might  almost  say.  Na  !  's  schad't  nix." 

I  turned  away  in  a  little  offended  pride.  Her  familiarity 
annoyed  me.  What  if  she  were  a  thousand  times  clev- 
erer, wittier,  better  read  than  I  ?  I  did  not  like  her.  A 
shade  crossed  her  face. 

"  Is  it  that  you  are  thoroughly  unamiable  ? "  said  she, 


I02  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

in  a  voice  which  had  reproach  in  it,  "or  are  all  English 
girls  so  touchy  that  they  receive  a  compliment  upon  their 
good  looks  as  if  it  were  an  offense?  " 

"  I  wish  you  would  not  talk  of  my  '  good  looks '  as  if  I 
were  a  dog  or  a  horse ! "  said  I,  angrily.  "  I  hate  to  be 
flattered.  I  am  no  beauty,  and  do  not  wish  to  be  treated 
as  if  I  were." 

"Do  you  always  hate  it?"  said  she  from  the  window, 
whither  she  had  turned.  "Ach/  there  goes  Herr  Cour- 
voisier!" 

The  name  startled  me  like  a  sudden  report.  I  made  an 
eager  step  forward  before  I  had  time  to  recollect  myself — 
then  stopped. 

"He  is  not  out  of  sight  yet,"  said  she,  with  a  curious 
look,  "if  you  wish  to  see  him." 

I  sat  down  and  made  no  answer.  What  prompted  her 
to  talk  in  such  a  manner?  Was  it  a  mere  coincidence? 

"He  is  a  handsome  fellow,  nicht  wahr?"  she  said,  still 
watching  me,  while  I  thought  Frau  Steinmann  never 
would  manage  to  arrange  her  cap  in  the  style  that  pleased 
her.  "  But  a  Taugenichts  all  the  same,"  pursued  Anna  as 
I  did  not  speak.  " Don't  you  think  so?"  she  added. 

"A  Taugenichts — I  don't  know  what  that  is." 

"What  you  call  a  good-for-nothing." 

"Oh."  ' 

"  Nicht  wahr  ?  "  she  persisted. 

"I  know  nothing  about  it" 

"  I  do.     I  will  tell  you  all  about  him  sometime." 

"I  don't  wish  to  know  anything  about  him." 

"  So ! "  said  she,  with  a  laugh. 

Without  further  word  or  look  I  followed  Frau  Stein- 
mann down-stairs. 

The  lady  of  the  house  was  seated  in  the  midst  of  a 
large  concourse  of  old  and  young  ladies,  holding  her  own 
with  a  well-seasoned  hardihood  in  the  midst  of  the  awful 
Babel  of  tongues.  What  a  noise!  It  smote  upon  and 
stunned  my  confounded  ear.  Our  hostess  advanced  and 
led  me  with  a  wave  of  the  hand  into  the  centre  of  the 
room,  when  she  introduced  me  to  about  a  dozen  ladies: 
and  every  one  in  the  room  stopped  talking  and  working, 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


103 


and  stared  at  me  intently  and  unwinkingly  until  my  name 
had  been  pronounced,  after  which  some  continued  still  to 
stare  at  me,  and  others  audibly  repeated  or  attempted  to 
repeat  my  name,  commenting  openly  upon  it.  Mean- 
while I  was  conducted  to  a  sofa  at  the  end  of  the  room, 
and  requested  in  a  set  phrase,  "Hitte,  Fraulein,  nehmcn 
Sie  Platz  auf  dem  Sofa"  with  which  long  custom  has 
since  made  me  familiar,  to  take  my  seat  upon  it.  I 
humbly  tried  to  decline  the  honor,  but  Anna  Sartorius, 
behind  me,  whispered: 

"Sit  down  directly,  unless  you  want  to  be  thought  an 
outer  barbarian.  The  place  has  been  kept  for  you." 

Deeply  impressed,  and  very  uncomfortable,  I  sat  down. 
First  one  and  then  another  came  and  spoke  and  talked  to 
me.  Their  questions  and  remarks  were  much  in  this 
style : 

"  Do  you  like  Elberthal ?  What  is  your  Christian  name? 
How  old  are  you?  Have  you  been  or  are  you  engaged 
to  be  married?  They  break  off  engagements  in  England 
for  a  mere  trifle,  don't  they?  Schrecklich !  Did  you 
get  your  dress  in  Elberthal  ?  What  did  it  cost  the  elle  ? 
Young  English  ladies  wear  silk  much  more  than  young 
German  ladies.  You  never  go  to  the  theatre  on  Sunday 
in  England — you  are  all  pictistisch.  How  beautifully  you 
speak  our  language!  Really  no  foreign  accent!"  (This 
repeatedly  and  unblushingly,  in  spite  of  my  most  flagrant 
mistakes,  and  in  the  face  of  my  most  feeble,  halting,  and 
stammering  efforts  to  make  myself  understood.)  "Do 
you  learn  music?  singing?  From  whom?  Herr  von 
Francius?  Ach,  so!"  (Pause,  while  they  all  look  im- 
pressively at  me.  The  very  name  of  Von  Francius  calls 
up  emotions  of  no  common  order.)  "I  believe  I  have 
seen  you  at  the  Proben  to  the  Paradise  Lost.  Perhaps 
you  are  the  lady  who  is  to  take  the  solos?  Yes!  Du 
licber  Himmel!  What  do  you  think  of  Herr  von  Fran- 
cius ?  Is  he  not  nice  ?  "  (Neft,  though,  signifies  something 
feminine  and  finikin.)  "  No  ?  How  odd !  There  is  no  ac- 
counting for  the  tastes  of  Englishwomen.  Do  you  know 
many  people  in  Elberthal?  No?  Schade /  No  officers? 
not  Hauptmann  Sachse?"  (with  voice  growing  gradually 


IO4 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


shriller),  "nor  Lieutenant  Pieper?  .AW  know  Lieutenant 
Pieper!  Um  Gotteswillen  !  What  do  you  mean?  He 
if  so  handsome !  such  eyes !  such  a  mustache !  Herrgott  / 
And  you  do  not  know  him?  I  will  tell  you  something 
When  he  went  off  to  the  autumn  maneuvers  at  Frankfort 
(I  have  it  on  good  authority),  twenty  young  ladies  went 
to  see  him  off." 

"Disgusting!"  I  exclaimed,  unable  to  control  my 
feelings  any  longer.  I  saw  Anna  Sartorius  malignantly 
smiling  as  she  rocked  herself  in  an  American  rocking- 
chair. 

"  How !  disgusting  ?  You  are  joking.  He  had  dozens 
of  bouquets.  All  the  girls  are  in  love  with  him.  They 
compelled  the  photographer  to  sell  them  his  photograph, 
and  they  all  believe  he  is  in  love  with  them.  I  believe 
Luise  Breidenstein  will  die  if  he  doesn't  propose  to  her." 

"  They  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  themselves." 

"But  he  is  so  handsome,  so  delightful.  He  dances 
divinely,  and  knows  such  good  riddles,  and  acts — ac/i, 
himmlisch  !  " 

"  But  how  absurd  to  make  such  a  fuss  of  him  !  "  I  cried, 
hot  and  indignant.  "The  idea  of  going  on  so  about  a 
man  !  " 

A  chorus,  a  shriek,  a  Babel  of  expostulations. 

"  Listen,  Thekla !  Fraulein  Wedderburn  does  not  know 
Lieutenant  Pieper,  and  does  not  think  it  right  to  schivarm 
for  him." 

"The  darling!  No  one  can  help  it  who  knows  him!" 
said  another. 

"  Let  her  wait  till  she  does  know  him,"  said  Thekla,  a 
sentimental  young  woman,  pretty  in  a  certain  sentimental 
way,  and  graceful  too — also  sentimentally — with  the  sen- 
timent that  lingers  about  young  ladies'  albums  with  leaves 
of  smooth,  various-hued  note-paper,  and  about  the  son- 
nets which  nestle  within  the  same.  There  was  a  sudden 
shriek : 

"  There  he  goes  !  There  is  the  Herr  Lieutenant  riding 
by.  Just  come  here,  mein  Fraulein  /  See  him !  Judge 
for  yourself ! " 

A  strong  hand  dragged  me,  whether  I  would  or  no,  to 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  IC>5 

the  window,  and  pointed  out  to  me  the  Herr  Lieutenant 
riding  by.  An  adorable  creature  in  a  Hussar  uniform ; 
he  had  pink  cheeks  and  a  straight  nose,  and  the  loveliest 
little  model  of  a  mustache  ever  seen ;  tightly  curling  black 
hair,  and  the  dearest  little  feet  and  hands  imaginable. 

"  Oh,  the  dear,  handsome,  delightful  fellow ! "  cried 
one  enthusiastic  young  creature,  who  had  scrambled  upon 
a  chair  in  the  background  and  was  gazing  after  him  while 
another,  behind  me,  murmured  in  tones  of  emotion : 

"  Look  how  he  salutes — divine,  isn't  it  ?  " 

I  turned  away,  smiling  an  irrepressible  smile.  My 
musician,  with  his  ample  traits  and  clear,  bold  eyes, 
would  have  looked  a  wild,  rough,  untamable  creature  by 
the  side  of  that  wax-doll  beauty — that  pretty  little  being 
who  had  just  ridden  by.  I  thought  I  saw  them  side  by 
side — Herr  Lieutenant  Pieper  and  Eugen  Courvoisier. 
The  latter  would  have  been  as  much  more  imposing  than 
the  former  as  an  oak  is  more  imposing  than  a  spruce  fir — 
as  Gluck  than  Lortzing.  And  could  these  enthusiastic 
young  ladies  have  viewed  the  two  they  would  have  been 
true  to  their  lieutenant;  so  much  was  certain.  They 
would  have  said  that  the  other  was  a  wild  man,  who  did 
not  cut  his  hair  often  enough,  who  had  large  hands,  whose 
collar  was  perhaps  chosen  more  with  a  view  to  ease  and 
the  free  movement  of  the  throat  than  to  the  smallest 
number  of  inches  within  which  it  was  possible  to  confine 
that  throat;  who  did  not  wear  polished  kid  boots,  and 
was  not  seen  off  from  the  station  by  twenty  devoted  ad- 
mirers of  the  opposite  sex,  was  not  deluged  with  bouquets. 
With  a  feeling  as  of  something  singing  at  my  heart  I  went 
back  to  my  place,  smiling  still. 

"  See !  she  is  quite  charmed  with  the  Herr  Lieutenant ! 
Is  he  not  delightful  ?  " 

"  Oh,  very ;  so  is  a  Dresden  china  shepherd,  but  if  you 
let  him  fall  he  breaks." 

"  llle  komisch !  how  odd!"  was  the  universal  com- 
ment upon  my  eccentricity.  The  conversation  had  wan- 
dered off  to  other  military  stars,  all  of  whom  were 
reizend,  hubsch  or  nett.  So  it  went  on  until  I  got  heartily 
tired  of  it,  and  then  the  ladies  discussed  their  female 


I06  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

neighbors,  but  I  leave  that  branch  of  the  subject  to  the 
intelligent  reader.  It  was  the  old  tune  with  the  old  varia- 
tions, which  were  rattled  over  in  the  accustomed  manner. 
I  listened,  half  curious,  half  appalled,  and  thought  of 
various  speeches  made  by  Anna  Sartorius.  Whether  she 
were  amiable  or  not,  she  had  certainly  a  keen  insight  into 
the  hearts  and  motives'  of  her  fellow-creatures.  Perhaps 
the  gift  had  soured  her. 

Anna  and  I  walked  home  alone.  Frau  Steinmann  was, 
with  other  elderly  ladies  of  the  company,  to  spend  the 
evening  there.  As  we  walked  down  the  Konigsallee — 
how  well  to  this  day  do  I  remember  it !  the  chestnuts 
were  beginning  to  fade,  the  road  was  dusty,  the  sun  set- 
ting gloriously,  the  people  thronging  in  crowds — she  said 
suddenly,  quietly,  and  in  a  tone  of  the  utmost  composure: 

"  So  you  don't  admire  Lieutenant  Pieper  so  much  as 
Herr  Courvoisier  ?  " 

"What  do  you  mean?"  I  cried,  astonished,  alarmed, 
and  wondering  what  unlucky  chance  led  her  to  talk  to 
me  of  Eugen. 

"  I  mean  what  I  sa^- ;  and  for  my  part  I  agree  with 
you — partly.  Courvoisier,  bad  though  he  may  be,  is  a 
man  ;  the  other  a  mixture  of  doll  and  puppy." 

She  spoke  in  a  friendly  tone;  discursive,  as  if  inviting 
confidence  and  comment  on  my  part.  I  was  not  inclined 
to  give  either.  I  shrank  with  morbid  nervousness  from 
owning  to  any  knowledge  of  Eugen.  My  pride,  nay,  my 
very  self-esteem,  bled  whenever  I  thought  of  him  or  heard 
him  mentioned.  Above  all,  I  shrank  from  the  idea  of 
discussing  him,  or  anything  pertaining  to  him,  with  Anna 
Sartorius. 

"  It  will  be  time  for  you  to  agree  with  me  when  I  give 
you  anything  to  agree  about,"  said  I,-  coldly.  "  I  know 
nothing  of  either  of  the  gentlemen,  and  wish  to  know 
nothing." 

There  was  a  pause.  Looking  up,  I  found  Anna's  eyes 
fixed  upon  my  face,  amazed,  reproachful.  I  felt  myself 
blushing  fierily.  My  tongue  had  led  me  astray;  I  had 
lied  to  her  :  I  knew  it. 

"  Do  not  say  you  know  nothing  of  either  of  the  gen- 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


107 


tlemen.  Herr  Courvoisier  was  your  first  acquaintance,  in 
Elberthal." 

"  What  ?  "  I  cried,  with  a  great  leap  of  the  heart,  for  I 
felt  as  if  a  veil  had  suddenly  been  rent  away  from  be- 
fore my  eyes,  and  I  shown  a  precipice. 

"  I  saw  you  arrive  with  Herr  Courvoisier,"  said  Anna, 
calmly;  "at  least,  I  saw  you  come  from  the  platform 
with  him,  and  he  put  you  into  a  droschke.  And  I  saw 
you  cut  him  at  the  opera;  and  I  saw  you  go  into  his 
house  after  the  general  Probe.  Will  you  tell  me  again 
that  you  know  nothing  of  him  ?  I  should  have  thought 
you  too  proud  to  tell  lies." 

"  I  wish  you  would  mind  your  own  business,"  said  I, 
heartily  wishing  that  Anna  Sartorius  were  at  the  anti- 
podes. 

"Listen !  "  said  she,  very  earnestly,  and,  I  remember  it 
now,  though  I  did  not  heed  it  then,  with  wistful  kind- 
ness. "  I  do  not  bear  malice — you  are  so  young  and  in- 
experienced. I  wish  you  were  more  friendly,  but  I  care 
for  you  too  much  to  be  rebuffed  by  a  trifle.  I  will  tell 
you  about  Courvoisier." 

"Thank  you,"  said  I,  hastily,  "I  beg  you  will  do  no 
such  thing," 

"I  know  his  story.  I  can  tell  you  the  truth  about 
him." 

"  I  decline  to  discuss  the  subject,"  said  I,  thinking  of 
Eugen,  and  passionately  refusing  the  idea  of  discussing 
him,  gossiping  about  him,  with  any  one. 

Anna  looked  surprised :  then  a  look  of  anger  crossed 
her  face. 

"  .You  cannot  be  in  earnest,"  said  she. 

"  I  assure  you  I  am.  I  wish  you  would  leave  me  alone" 
I  said,  exasperated  beyond  endurance. 

"You  don't  wish  to  know  what  I  can  tell  you  about 
him  ?  " 

"  No,  I  don't.  What  is  more,  if  you  begin  talking  to 
me  about  him,  I  will  put  my  fingers  in  my  ears,  and  leave 
you." 

'•'•Then  you  may  learn  it  for  yourself"  said  she,  sud- 
denly, in  a  voice  little  more  than  a  whisper.  "  You  shall 


I08  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

rue.  your  treatment  of  me.  And  when  you  know  the  les- 
son by  heart,  then  you  will  be  sorry." 

"  You  are  officious  and  impertinent,"  said  I,  white  with 
ire.  "  I  don't  wish  for  your  society,  and  will  say  good- 
evening  to  you." 

With  that  I  turned  down  a  side  street  leading  into  the 
Alleestrasse,  and  left  her. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

"So! 

Another  chapter  read ;  with  doubtful  hand 
I  turn  the  page;  with  doubtful  eye  I  scan 
The  heading  of  the  next." 

FROM  that  evening  Anna  let  me  alone,  as  I  thought, 
and  I  was  glad  of  it,  nor  did  I  attempt  any  recon- 
ciliation, for  the  very  good  reason  that  I  wished  for  none. 
Soon  after  our  dispute  I  found  upon  my  plate  at  break- 
fast, one  morning,  a  letter  directed  in  a  bold  though  un- 
formed hand,  which  I  recognized  as  Stella's : 

"DEAR  MAY, 

"  I  dare  say  Adelaide  will  be  writing  to  you,  but  I  will 
take  time  by  the  forelock,  so  to  speak,  and  give  you  my 
views  on  the  subject  first. 

"  There  is  news,  strange  to  say  there  is  some  news  to 
tell  you.  I  shall  give  it  without  making  any  remarks.  I 
shall  not  say  whether  I  think  it  good,  bad,  or  indifferent. 
Adelaide  is  engaged  to  Sir  Peter  Le  Marchant.  It  was 
only  made  known  two  days  ago.  Adelaide  thinks  he  is 
in  love  with  her.  What  a  strange  mistake  for  her  to  make ! 
She  thinks  she  can  do  anything  with  him.  Also  a  mon- 
strous misapprehension  on  her  part.  Seriously,  May,  I 
am  rather  uncomfortable  about  it,  or  should  be,  if  it  were 
any  one  else  but  Adelaide.  But  she  knows  so  remarkably 
well  what  she  is  about,  that  perhaps,  after  all,  my  fears  are 
needless.  And  yet — but  it  is  no  use  speculating  about 
it — I  said  I  wouldn't. 


IIO  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

"  She  is  a  queer  girl.  I  don't  know  how  she  can  marry 
Sir  Peter,  I  must  say.  I  suppose  he  is  awfully  rich,  and 
Adelaide  has  always  said  that  poverty  was  the  most  hor- 
rible thing  in  the  world.  I  don't  know,  I'm  sure.  I 
should  be  inclined  to  say  that  Sir  Peter  was  the  most  hor- 
rible thing  in  the  world.  Write  soon,  and  tell  me  what 
you  think  about  it. 

"  Thine,  speculatively, 

"  STELLA  WEDDERBURN." 

I  did  not  feel  surprise  at  this  letter.  Foreboding,  grief, 
shame,  I  did  experience  at  finding  that  Adelaide  was  bent 
upon  her  own  misery.  But  then,  I  reflected,  she  cannot 
be  very  sensible  to  misery,  or  she  would  not  be  able  to  go 
through  with  such  a  purpose.  I  went  up-stairs  to  com- 
municate this  news  to  Miss  Hallam.  Soon  the  rapid 
movement  of  events  in  my  own  affairs  completely  drove 
thoughts  of  Adelaide  for  a  time,  at  least,  out  of  my  mind. 

Miss  Hallam  received  the  information  quietly  and  with 
a  certain  contemptuous  indifference.  I  knew  she  did  not 
like  Adelaide,  and  I  spoke  of  her  as  seldom  as  possible. 

I  took  up  some  work,  glancing  at  the  clock,  for  I  ex- 
pected Von  Francius  soon  to  give  me  my  lesson,  and  Miss 
Hallam  sat  still.  I  had  offered  to  read  to  her,  and  she 
had  declined.  I  glanced  at  her  now  and  then.  I  had 
grown  accustomed  to  that  sarcastic,  wrinkled,  bitter  face, 
and  did  not  dislike  it.  Indeed,  Miss  Hallam  had  given 
me  abundant  proofs  that,  eccentric  though  she  might  be, 
pessimist  in  theory,  merciless  upon  human  nature,  which 
she  spoke  of  in  a  manner  which  sometimes  absolutely 
appalled  me,  yet  in  fact,  in  deed,  she  was  a  warm-hearted, 
generous  woman.  She  had  dealt  bountifully  by  me,  and 
I  knew  she  loved  me,  though  she  never  said  so. 

"  May,"  she  presently  remarked,  "  yesterday,  when  you 
were  out,  I  saw  Dr.  Mittendorf." 

"  Did  you,  Mis-  Hallam  ?  " 

"  Yes.  He  says  it  is  useless  my  remaining  here  any 
longer.  I  shall  never  see,  and  an  operation  might  cost 
me  my  life  ?  " 

Half  stunned,  and  not  yet  quite  taking  in  the  whole 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  HI 

case,  I  held  my  work  suspended,  and  looked  at  her.  She 
went  on : 

"  I  knew  it  would  be  so  when  I  came.  I  don't  intend 
to  try  any  more  experiments.  I  shall  go  home  next 
week." 

Now  I  grasped  the  truth. 

"  Go  home,  Miss  Hallam !  "  I  repeated,  faintly. 

"  Yes ;  of  course.  There  is  no  reason  why  I  should 
stay,  is  there  ?  " 

"  N — no,  I  suppose  not,"  I  admitted ;  and  contrived  to 
stammer  out,  "  and  I  am  very  sorry  that  Dr.  Mittendorf 
thinks  you  will  not  be  better." 

Then  I  left  the  room  quickly — I  could  not  stay,  I  was 
overwhelmed.  It  was  scarcely  ten  minutes  since  I  had 
come  up-stairs  to  her.  I  could  have  thought  it  was  a 
week. 

Outside  the  room,  I  stood  on  the  landing  with  my  hand 
pressed  to  my  forehead,  for  I  felt  somewhat  bewildered. 
Stella's  letter  was  still  in  my  hand.  As  I  stood  there 
Anna  Sartorius  came  past. 

"  Guten  Tag,  Fraulein"  said  she,  with  a  mocking  kind 
of  good-nature  when  she  had  observed  me  for  a  few  min- 
utes. "What  is  the  matter?  Are  you  ill?  Have  you 
had  bad  news  ?  " 

"  Good-morning,  Fraulein"  I  answered  quietly  enough, 
dropping  my  hand  from  my  brow. 

I  went  to  my  room.  A  maid  was  there,  and  the  furni- 
ture might  have  stood  as  a  type  of  chaos.  I  turned  away, 
and  went  to  the  empty  room  in  which  my  piano  stood, 
and  where  I  had  my  music  lessons.  I  sat  down  upon  a 
stool  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  folded  my  hands  in  my 
lap,  and  endeavored  to  realize  what  had  happened — what 
was  going  to  happen.  There  rang  in  my  head  nothing 
but  the  words,  "I  am  going  home  next  week.  " 

Home  again !  What  a  blank  yawned  before  me  at  the 
idea !  Leave  Elberthal — leave  this  new  life  which  had 
just  begun  to  grow  real  to  me!  Leave  it — go  away;  be 
whirled  rapidly  away  back  to  Skernford — away  from  this 
vivid  life,  away  from — Eugen.  I  drew  a  long  breath,  as 
the  wretched  ignominious  idea  intruded  itself,  and  I  knew 


II2  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

now  what  it  was  that  gave  terror  to  the  prospect  before 
me.  My  heart  quailed  and  fainted  at  the  bare  idea  of 
such  a  thing.  Not  even  Hobson's  choice  was  open  to 
me.  There  was  no  alternative — I  must  go.  I  sat  still, 
and  felt  myself  growing  gradually  stiller  and  graver  and 
colder  as  I  looked  mentally  to  every  side  of  my  horizon, 
and  found  it  so  bounded — myself  shut  in  so  fast. 

There  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  return  home,  and  spend 
the  rest  of  my  life  at  Skernford.  I  was  in  a  mood  in 
which  I  could  smile.  I  smiled  at  the  idea  of  myself 
growing  older  and  older,  and  this  six  weeks  that  I  had 
spent  fading  back  and  back  into  the  distance,  and  the 
people  into  whose  lives  I  had  a  cursory  glance  going  on  their 
way,  and  soon  forgetting  my  existence.  Truly,  Anna !  if 
you  were  anxious  for  me  to  be  miserable,  this  moment,  could 
you  know  it,  should  be  sweet  to  you ! 

My  hands  clasped  themselves  more  closely  upon  my 
lap,  and  I  sat  staring  at  nothing,  vaguely,  until  a  shadow 
before  me  caused  me  to  look  up.  Without  knowing  it, 
Von  Francius  had  come  in,  and  was  standing  by,  looking 
at  me. 

"  Good-morning! "  said  I,  with  a  vast  effort,  partially 
collecting  my  scattered  thoughts. 

"  Are  you  ready  for  your  lesson ,  mein  Fraulein  ?  " 

"  N — no.  I  think,  Herr  Direktor,  I  will  not  take  any 
lesson  to-day,  if  you  will  excuse  it." 

"But  why?     Are  you  ill?" 

"  No, "  said  I.  "  At  least — perhaps  I  want  to  accustom 
myself  to  do  without  music-lessons." 

"So?" 

"Yes,  and  without  many  other  pleasant  things,"  said  I, 
dryly  and  decidedly. 

"  I  do  not  understand,"  said  he,  putting  his  hat  down, 
and  leaning  one  elbow  upon  the  piano,  whilst  his  deep 
eyes  fixed  themselves  upon  my  face,  and,  as  usual,  began 
to  compel  my  secrets  from  me. 

"I  am  going  home,"  said  I. 

A  quick  look  of  feeling — whether  astonishment,  regret, 
or  dismay,  I  should  not  like  to  have  said — flashed  across 
his  face. 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  H3 

"  Have  you  had  bad  news  ?  " 

"Yes,  very.  Miss  Hallam  returns  to  England  next 
week." 

"  But  why  do  you  go  ?     Why  not  remain  here  ?  " 

"Gladly,  if  I  had  any  money,"  I  said,  with  a  dry 
smile.  "But  I  have  none,  and  cannot  get  any." 

"You  will  return  to  England  now?  Do  you  know 
what  you  are  giving  up  ?  " 

"Obligation  has  no  choice,"  said  I,  gracefully.  "I 
would  give  anything  if  I  could  stay  here,  and  not  go 
home  again."  And  with  that  I  burst  into  tears.  I  cov- 
ered my  face  with  my  hands,  and  all  the  pent-up  grief 
and  pain  of  the  coming  parting  streamed  from  my  eyes. 
I  wept  uncontrollably. 

He  did  not  interrupt  my  tears  for  some  time.  When 
he  did  speak,  it  was  in  a  very  gentle  voice. 

"  Miss  Wedderburn,  will  you  try  to  compose  yourself, 
and  listen  to  something  I  have  to  say  ?  " 

I  looked  up.  I  saw  his  eyes  fixed  seriously  and  kindly 
upon  me,  with  an  expression  quite  apart  from  their  usual 
indifferent  coolness — with  the  look  of  one  friend  to  an- 
other— with  such  a  look  as  I  had  seen  and  have  since 
seen  exchanged  between  Courvoisier  and  his  friend 
Helfen. 

"See,"  said  he,  "I  take  an  interest  in  you,  Fraulein 
May.  Why  should  I  hesitate  to  say  so  ?  You  are  young 
— you  do  not  know  the  extent  of  your  own  strength,  or 
of  your  own  weakness.  I  do.  I  will  not  flatter — it  is 
not  my  way — as  I  think  you  know." 

I  smiled.  I  remembered  the  plentiful  blame  and  the 
scant  praise  which  it  had  often  fallen  to  my  lot  to  receive 
from  him. 

"I  am  a  strict,  sarcastic,  disagreeable  old  pedagogue, 
as  you  and  so  many  of  my  other  fair  pupils  consider,"  he 
went  on,  and  I  looked  up  in  amaze.  I  knew  that  so 
many  of  his  "fair  pupils"  considered  him  exactly  the 
reverse. 

"  It  is  my  business  to  know  whether  a  voice  is  good  for 
anything  or  not.  Now  yours,  with  training,  will  be  good 
for  a  great  deal.  Have  you  the  means,  or  the  chance, 
or  the  possibility  of  getting  that  training  in  England?" 


II4  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

"No." 

"I  should  like  to  help  you,  partly  from  the  regard 
I  have  for  you,  partly  for  my  own  sake,  because  I  think 
you  would  do  me  credit." 

He  paused.  I  was  looking  at  him  with  all  my  senses 
concentrated  upon  what  he  had  said.  He  had  been  talk- 
ing round  the  subject  until  he  saw  that  he  had  fairly  fixed 
my  attention ;  then  he  said,  sharply  and  rapidly  : 

"  Fraulein,  it  lies  with  you  to  choose.  Will  you  go 
home  and  stagnate  there,  or  will  you  remain  here,  fight 
down  your  difficulties,  and  become  a  worthy  artist  ?  " 

"  Can  there  be  any  question  as  to  which  I  should  like 
to  do  ? "  said  I,  distracted  at  the  idea  of  having  to  give 
up  the  prospect  he  held  out.  "But  it  is  impossible. 
Miss  Hallam  alone  can  decide." 

"But  if  Miss  Hallam  consented,  you  Avould  remain  ?" 

"Oh!  Herr  von  Francius!  You  should  soon  see 
whether  I  would  remain  ! " 

"Also!  Miss  Hallam  shall  consent.  Now  to  our  sing- 
ing!" 

I  stood  up.  A  singular  apathy  had  come  over  me ;  I 
felt  no  longer  my  old  self.  I  had  a  kind  of  confidence 
in  Von  Francius,  and  yet —  Despite  my  recent  trouble, 
I  felt  now  a  lightness  and  freedom,  and  a  perfect  ability 
to  cast  aside  all  anxieties,  and  turn  to  the  business  of  the 
moment — my  singing.  I  had  never  sung  better.  Von 
Francius  condescended  to  say  that  I  had  done  well. 
Then  he  rose. 

"  Now  I  am  going  to  have  a  private  interview  with 
Miss  Hallam,"  said  he,  smiling.  "  I  am  always  having 
private  interviews  with  her,  nicht  wahr?  Nay,  Fraulein 
May,  do  not  let  your  eyes  fill  with  tears.  Have  confi- 
dence in  yourself  and  your  destiny,  as  I  have." 

With  that  he  was  gone,  leaving  me  to  practice.  How 
very  kind  Von  Francius  was  to  me !  I  thought — not  in 
the  least  the  kind  of  man  people  called  him.  I  had 
great  confidence  in  him — in  his  will.  I  almost  believed 
that  he  would  know  the  right  thing  to  say  to  Miss  Hal- 
lam to  get  her  to  let  me  stay;  but  then,  suppose  she  were 
willing,  I  had  no  possible  means  of  support.  Tired  of 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  ng 

conjecturing  upon  a  subject  upon  which  I  was  so  utterly 
in  the  dark,  I  soon  ceased  that  foolish  pursuit.  An  hour 
had  passed,  when  I  heard  Von  Francius's  step,  which  I 
knew  quite  well,  come  down  the  stairs.  My  heart  beat, 
but  I  could  not  move. 

Would  he  pass,  or  would  he  come  and  speak  to  me  ? 
He  paused.  His  hand  was  on  the  lock.  That  was  he, 
standing  before  me,  with  a  slight  smile.  He  did  not  look 
like  a  man  defeated — but  then,  could  he  look  like  a  man 
defeated  ?  My  idea  of  him  was  that  he  held  his  own 
way  calmly,  and  that  circumstances  respectfully  bowed 
to  him. 

"  The  day  is  gained,"  said  he,  and  paused ;  but  before 
I  could  speak  he  went  on : 

"  Go  to  Miss  Hallam ;  be  kind  to  her.  It  is  hard  for 
her  to  part  from  you,  and  she  has  behaved  like  a  Spartan. 
I  felt  quite  sorry  to  have  to  give  her  so  much  pain." 

Much  wondering  what  could  have  passed  between 
them,  I  left  Von  Francius  silently  and  sought  Miss 
Hallam. 

"Are  you  there,  May?"  said  she.  "What  have  you 
been  doing  all  the  morning  ?  " 

"Practicing — and  having  my  lesson." 

"Practicing — and  having  your  lesson — exactly  what  I 
have  been  doing.  Practicing  giving  up  my  own  wishes, 
and  taking  a  lesson  in  the  art  of  persuasion,  by  being 
myself  persuaded.  Your  singing-master  is  a  wonderful 
man.  He  has  made  me  act  against  my  principles." 

"  Miss  Hallam—" 

"You  were  in  great  trouble  this  morning  when  you  heard 
you  were  to  leave  Elberthal.  I  knew  it  instantly.  How- 
ever,'you  shall  not  go  unless  you  choose.  You  shall  stay." 

Wondering,  I  held  my  tongue. 

"  Herr  von  Francius  has  showed  me  my  duty." 

"  Miss  Hallam,"  said  I,  suddenly,  "  I  will  do  whatever 
you  wish.  After  your  kindness  to  me,  you  have  the 
right  to  dispose  of  my  doings.  I  shall  be  glad  to  do  as 
you  wish." 

"  Well,"  said  she,  composedly,  "  I  wish  you  to  write  a 
letter  to  your  parents,  which  i  will  dictate;  of  course 


ZI6  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

they  must  be  consulted.  Then,  if  they  consent,  I  intend 
to  provide  you  with  the  means  of  carrying  on  your 
studies  in  Elberthal  under  Herr  von  Francius." 

I  almost  gasped.  Miss  Hallam,  who  had  been  a  by- 
word in  Skernford,  and  in  our  own  family,  for  eccentricity 
and  stinginess,  was  indeed  heaping  coals  of  fire  upon  my 
head.  I  tried,  weakly  and  ineffectually,  to  express  my 
gratitude  to  her,  and  at  last  said  : 

"  You  may  trust  me  never  to  abuse  your  kindness,  Miss 
Hallam." 

"  I  have  trusted  you  ever  since  you  refused  Sir  Peter 
Le  Marchant,  and  were  ready  to  leave  your  home  to  get 
rid  of  him,"  said  she,  with  grim  humor. 

She  then  told  me  that  she  had  settled  everything  with 
Von  Francius,  even  that  I  was  to  remove  to  different 
lodgings,  more  suited  for  a  solitary  student  than  Frau 
Steinmann's  busy  house. 

"And,"  she  added,  "I  shall  ask  Doctor  Mittendorf  to 
have  an  eye  to  you  now  and  then,  and  to  write  to  me  of 
how  you  go  on." 

I  could  not  find  many  words  in  which  to  thank  her. 
The  feeling  that  I  was  not  going,  did  not  need  to  leave  it 
all,  filled  my  heart  with  a  happiness  as  deep  as  it  was 
unfounded  and  unreasonable. 

At  my  next  lesson  Von  Francius  spoke  to  me  of  the 
future. 

"I  want  you  to  be  a  real  student — no  play  one,"  said 
he,  "or  you  will  never  succeed  And  for  that  reason  I 
told  Miss  Hallam  that  you  had  better  leave  this  house. 
There  are  too  many  distractions.  I  am  going  to  put  you 
in  a  very  different  place." 

"Where  ?     In  which  part  of  the  town  ?" 

"Wehrhahn,  39,  is  the  address,"  said  he. 

I  was  not  quite  sure  where  that  was,  but  did  not  ask 
further,  for  I  was  occupied  in  helping  Miss  Hallam,  and 
wished  to  be  with  her  as  much  as  I  could  before  she  left. 

The  day  of  parting  came,  as  come  it  must.  Miss 
Hallam  was  gone.  I  had  cried,  and  she  had  maintained 
the  grim  silence  which  was  her  only  way  of  expressing 
emotion. 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


117 


She  was  going  back  home  to  Skernford,  to  blindness, 
now  known  to  be  inevitable,  to  her  saddened,  joyless  life. 
I  was  going  to  remain  in  Elberthal — for  what  ?  When  I 
look  back  I  ask  myself — was  I  not  as  blind  as  she,  in 
truth  ? 

In  the  afternoon  of  the  day  of  Miss  Hallam's  depart- 
ure, I  left  Frau  Steinrnann's  house.  Clara  promised  to 
come  and  see  me  sometimes.  Frau  Steinmann  kissed  me, 
and  called  me  liebes  Kind.  I  got  into  the  cab  and 
directed  the  driver  to  go  to  Wehrhahn,  39.  He  drove 
me  along  one  or  two  streets  into  the  one  known  as  the 
Schadowstrasse,  a  long,  wide  street,  in  which  stood  the 
Tonhalle.  A  little  past  that  building,  round  a  corner,  and 
he  stopped,  on  the  same  side  of  the  road. 

"Not  here!"  said  I,  putting  my  head  out  of  the 
window  when  I  saw  the  window  of  the  curiosity  shop  ex- 
actly opposite.  "  Not  here !  " 

"  Wehrhahn,  39,  Frdulein  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"This  is  it." 

I  stared  around.  Yes — on  the  wall  stood  in  plainly-to- 
be-read  white  letters,  Wehrhahn,  and  on  the  door  of  the 
house,  39.  Yielding  to  a  conviction  that  it  was  to  be,  I 
murmured  "Kismet"  and  descended  from  my  chariot. 

The  woman  of  the  house  received  me  civilly.  "The 
young  lady  for  whom  the  Hcrr  Direktor  had  taken  lodg- 
ings? Schon!  Please  to  come  this  way,  Frdulein.  The 
room  was  on  the  third  ctage."  I  followed  her  up-stairs — 
steep,  dark,  narrow  stairs,  like  those  of  the  opposite  house. 
The  room  was  a  bare-looking,  tolerably  large  one.  There 
was  a  little  closet  of  a  bedroom  opening  from  it — a  scrap 
of  carpet  upon  the  floor,  and  open  windows  letting  in  the 
air.  The  woman  chatted  good-naturedly  enough. 

"  So !  I  hope  the  room  will  suit,  Fraulein.  It  is  truly 
not  to  be  called  richly  furnished,  but  one  doesn't  need 
that  when  one  is  a  Sing-student.  I  have  had  many  in 
my  time  — ladies  and  gentlemen  too — pupils  of  Herr  von 
Francius  often.  Na  !  what  if  they  did  make  a  great  noise  ? 
I  have  no  children — thank  the  good  God !  and  one  gets 
used  to  the  screaming  just  as  one  gets  used  to  everything 
else."  Here  she  called  me  to  the  window. 


IZ8  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

"  You  might  have  worse  prospects  than  this,  Frdulein, 
and  worse  neighbors  than  those  over  the  way.  See! 
there  is  the  old  furniture  shop  where  so  many  of  the 
Herren  Maler  go,  and  then  there  is  Herr  Duntze,  the 
landscape  painter,  and  Herr  Knoop  who  paints  Genre- 
bilder  and  does  not  make  much  by  it — so  a  picture  of  a 
child  with  a  raveled  skein  of  wool,  or  a  little  girl  making 
ear-rings  for  herself  with  bunches  of  cherries — for  my 
part  I  don't  see  much  in  them,  and  wonder  that  there  are 
people  who  will  lay  down  good  hard  thalers  for  them. 
Then  there  is  Herr  Courvoisier,  the  Musiker — but  perhaps 
you  know  who  he  is. 

"Yes,"  I  assented. 

"And  his  little  son!"  Here  she  threw  up  her  hands. 
"Ach/  the  poor  man!  There  are  people  who  speak 
against  him,  and  every  one  knows  he  and  the  Herr  Direk- 
tor  are  not  the  best  friends,  but  sehen  Sie  wohl,  Friiu- 
lein,  the  Herr  Direktor  is  well  off,  settled,  provided  for; 
Herr  Courvoisier  has  his  way  to  make  yet,  and  the  world 
before  him ;  and  what  sort  of  a  story  it  may  be  with  the 
child,  I  don't  know,  but  this  I  will  say,  let  those  dare  to 
doubt  it  or  question  it  who  will,  he  is  a  good  father — I 
know  it.  And  the  other  young  man  with  Herr  Cour- 
voisier— his  friend,  I  suppose — he  is  a  Musiker  too.  I 
hear  them  practicing  a  good  deal  sometimes — things 
without  any  air  or  tune  to  them  :  for  my  part  I  wonder 
how  they  can  go  on  with  it.  Give  me  a  good  song  with 
a  tune  in  it — Dmntcn  im  Untcrland,  or  In  Berliti,  sagt  er, 
or  something  one  knows.  Na  !  I  suppose  the  fiddling  all 
lies  in  the  way  of  business,  and  perhaps  they  can  fall 
asleep  over  it  sometimes,  as  I  do  now  and  then  over  my 
knitting,  when  I'm  weary.  The  young  man,  Herr  Cour- 
voisier's  friend,  looked  ill  when  they  first  came ;  even  now 
he  is  not  to  call  a  robust-looking  person — but  formerly  he 
looked  as  if  he  would  go  out  of  the  fugue  altogether. 
Entschuldigen,  Fraulein,  if  I  use  a  few  professional  prov- 
erbs. My  husband,  the  sainted  man !  was  a  piano-tuner 
by  calling,  and  I  have  picked  up  some  of  his  musical  ex- 
pressions and  use  them,  more  for  his  sake  than  any  other 
reason — for  I  have  heard  too  much  music  to  believe  in  it 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


119 


so  much  as  ignorant  people  do.  Nun  !  I  will  send  Fr'du- 
Icin  her  box  up,  and  then  I  hope  she  will  feel  comfortable 
and  at  home,  and  send  for  whatever  she  wants." 

In  a  few  moments  my  luggage  had  come  up-stairs,  and 
when  they  who  brought  it  had  finally  disappeared,  I  went 
to  the  window  again  and  looked  out.  Opposite,  on  the 
same  &age,  were  two  windows,  corresponding  to  my  two, 
wide  open,  letting  me  see  into  an  empty  room,  in  which 
there  seemed  to  be  books  and  many  sheets  of  white  paper, 
a  music-desk  and  a  vase  of  flowers.  I  also  saw  a  piano 
in  the  clear-obscure,  and  another  door,  half  open,  lead- 
ing into  the  inner  room.  All  the  inhabitants  of  the  rooms 
were  out.  No  tone  came  across  to  me — no  movement 
of  life.  But  the  influence  of  the  absent  ones  was  there. 
Strange  concourse  of  circumstances  which  had  placed  me 
as  the  opposite  neighbor,  in  the  same  profession  too,  of 
Eugen  Courvoisier !  Pure  chance  it  certainly  was,  for 
Von  Francius  had  certainly  had  no  motive  in  bringing  me 
hither. 

" Kismet.'"  I  murmured  once  again,  and  wondered 
what  the  future  would  bring. 


BOOK  III. 

EUGEN  COURVOISIER. 
CHAPTER  I. 

"  He  looks  his  angel  in  the  face 
Without  a  blush  :  nor  heeds  disgrace, 
Whom  nought  disgraceful  done 
Disgraces.     Who  knows  nothing  base 

Fears  nothing  known." 

IT  was  noon.  The  Probe  to  Tannhanser  was  over,  and 
we,  the  members  of  the  Kapelle,  turned  out,  and  stood 
in  a  knot  around  the  orchestra  entrance  to  the  Elberthal 
Theatre. 

It  was  a  raw  October  noontide.  The  last  traces  of  the 
by-gone  summer  were  being  swept  away  by  equinoctial 
gales,  which  whirled  the  remaining  yellowing  leaves  from 
the  trees,  and  strewed  with  them  the  walks  of  the  deserted 
Hofgarten  ;  a  stormy  gray  sky  promised  rain  at  the  earli- 
est opportunity;  our  Rhine  went  gliding  by  like  a  stream 
of  ruffled  lead. 

"  Proper  theatre  weather,"  observed  one  of  my  fellow- 
musicians  ;  "  but  it  doesn't  seem  to  suit  you,  Friedhelm. 
What  makes  you  look  so  down  ?  " 

I  shrugged  my  shoulders.  Existence  was  not  at  that 
time  very  pleasant  to  me;  my  life's  hues  were  somewhat 
of  the  color  of  the  autumn  skies  and  of  the  dull  river.  I 
scarcely  knew  why  I  stood  with  the  others  now ;  it  was 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  I2i 

more  a  mechanical  pause  before  I  took  my  spiritless  way 
home,  than  because  I  felt  any  interest  in  what  was  going 
on. 

"  I  should  say  he  will  be  younger  by  a  long  way  than 
old  Kohler,"  observed  Karl  Linders,  one  of  the  violon- 
cellists, a  young  man  with  an  unfailing  flow  of  good- 
nature, good  spirits,  and  eagerness  to  enjoy  every  pleasure 
which  came  in  his  way,  which  qualities  were  the  objects 
of  my  deep  wonder  and  mild  envy.  "And  they  say," 
he  continued,  "  that  he's  coming  to-night ;  so  Friedhelm, 
my  boy,  you  may  look  out.  Your  master's  on  the  way." 

"So!"  said  I,  lending  but  an  indifferent  attention; 
"  what  is  his  name  ?  " 

"That's  his  way  of  gently  intimating  that  he  hasn't  got 
no  master,"  said  Karl,  jocosely,  but  the  general  answer  to 
my  question  was,  "  I  don't  know." 

"But  they  say,"  said  a  tall  man  who  wore  spectacles  and 
sat  behind  me  in  the  first  violins — "they  say  that  Von 
Francius  doesn't  like  the  appointment.  He  wanted  some 
one  else,  but  Die  Direktion  managed  to  beat  him.  He 
dislikes  the  new  fellow  beforehand,  whatever  he  may  be." 

"  So ! — Then  he  will  have  a  roughish  time  of  it ! "  agreed 
one  or  two  others. 

The  "he"  of  whom  they  spoke  was  the  coming  man 
who  should  take  the  place  of  the  leader  of  the  first  vio- 
lins— it  followed  that  he  would  be  at  least  an  excellent 
performer — possibly  a  clever  man  in  many  other  ways,  for 
the  post  was  in  many  ways  a  good  one.  Our  Kapelle  was 
no  mean  one — in  our  own  estimation  at  any  rate.  Our 
late  first  violinist,  who  had  recently  died,  had  been  on  vis- 
iting terms  with  persons  of  the  highest  respectability,  had 
given  lessons  to  the  very  best  families,  and  might  have 
been  seen  bowing  to  young  ladies  and  important  dowagers 
almost  any  day.  No  wonder  his  successor  was  speculated 
about  with  some  curiosity. 

"Alle  Wetter. '"  cried  Karl  Linders,  impatiently — that 
young  man  was  much  given  to  impatience — "  what  does 
Von  Francius  want  ?  he  can't  have  everything.  I  sup- 
pose this  new  fellow  plays  a  little  too  well  for  his  taste.  He 
will  have  to  give  him  a  solo  now  and  then  instead  of  keep- 
ing them  all  for  himself." 


I22  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

"  Weiss  's  nit"  said  another,  shrugging  his  shoulders ; 
"  I've  only  heard  that  Von  Francius  had  a  row  with  the 
Direction,  and  was  out-voted." 

"What  a  sweet  temper  he  will  be  in  at  the  Probe  to- 
morrow ! "  laughed  Karl.  "Won't  he  give  it  to  the  Mad- 
chen  right  and  left ! " 

"What  time  is  he  coming?"  proceeded  one  of  the  obo- 
ists. 

"Don't  know:  know  nothing  about  it;  perhaps  he'll 
appear  in  Tannhauser  to-night.  Look  out,  Friedhelm." 

"  Here  comes  little  Luischen,"  said  Karl,  with  a  win- 
ning smile,  a  straightening  of  his  collar,  and  a  general  arm- 
ing-for-conquest  expression,  as  some  of  the  "  ladies  of  the 
chorus  and  ballet"  appeared  from  the  side  door.  "Isn't 
she  pretty  ?  "  he  went  on,  in  an  audible  aside  to  me.  "  I've 
a  crow  to  pluck  with  her  too.  Tag,  Fraulein  /"  he  added, 
advancing  to  the  young  lady  who  had  so  struck  him. 

He  was  "struck"  on  an  average  once  a  week,  every 
time  with  the  most  beautiful  and  charming  of  her  sex. 
The  others,  with  one  or  two  exceptions,  also  turned.  I 
said  good  morning  to  Linders,  who  wished,  with  a  noble 
generosity,  to  make  me  a  partaker  in  his  cheerful  conver- 
sation with  Fraulein  Luise  of  the  first  soprans,  slipped 
from  his  grasp  and  took  my  way  homewards.  Fraulein 
Luischen  was  no  doubt  very  pretty,  and  in  her  way  a 
companionable  person.  Unfortunately  I  never  could  ap- 
preciate that  way.  With  every  wish  to  accommodate  my- 
self to  the  only  society  with  which  fortune  supplied  me,  it 
was  but  ill  that  I  succeeded. 

I,  Friedhelm  Helfen,  was  at  that  time  a  lonely,  soured 
misanthrope  of  two-and-twenty.  Let  the  announcement 
sound  as  absurd  as  it  may,  it  is  simply  and  absolutely  true. 
I  was  literally  alone  in  the  world.  My  last  relative  had 
died  and  left  me  entirely  without  any  one  who  could  have 
even  a  theoretical  reason  for  taking  any  interest  in  me. 
Gradually,  during  the  last  few  months,  I  had  fallen  into 
evil  places  of  thought  and  imagination.  There  had  been 
a  time  before,  as  there  has  been  a  time  since — as  it  is  with 
me  now — when  I  worshiped  my  art  with  all  my  strength 
as  the  most  beautiful  thing  on  earth ;  the  art  of  arts — the 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


123 


most  beautiful  and  perfect  development  of  beauty  which 
mankind  has  yet  succeeded  in  attaining  to,  and  when  the 
very  fact  of  its  being  so  and  of  my  being  gifted  with  some 
poor  power  of  expressing  and  interpreting  that  beauty  was 
enough  for  me — gave  me  a  place  in  the  world  with  which 
I  was  satisfied,  and  made  life  understandable  to  me.  At 
that  time  this  belief — my  natural  and  normal  state — was 
clouded  over ;  between  me  and  the  goddess  of  my  idola- 
try had  fallen  a  veil ;  I  wasted  my  brain  tissue  in  trying 
to  philosophize — cracked  my  head,  and  almost  my  reason 
over  the  endless,  unanswerable  question,  Cui  bono  ?  that 
question  which  may  so  easily  become  the  destruction  of 
the  fool  who  once  allows  himself  to  be  drawn  into  dally- 
ing with  it.  Cui  bono?  is  a  mental  Delilah  who  will  shear 
the  locks  of  the  most  arrogant  Samson.  And  into  the 
arms  and  to  the  tender  mercies  of  this  Delilah  I  had  given 
myself.  I  was  in  a  fair  way  of  being  lost  forever  in  her 
snares,  which  she  sets  for  the  feet  of  men.  To  what  use 
all  this  toil  ?  To  what  use — music  ?  After  by  dint  of  hard 
twisting  my  thoughts  and  coping  desperately  with  prob- 
lems that  I  did  not  understand,  having  managed  to  extract 
a  conviction  that  there  was  use  in  music — a  use  to  beau- 
tify, gladden,  and  elevate — I  began  to  ask  myself,  further: 
"  What  is  it  to  me  whether  mankind  is  elevated  or  not  ? 
made  better  or  worse  ?  higher  or  lower  ?  " 

Only  one  who  has  asked  himself  that  question,  as  I  did, 
in  bitter  earnest,  and  fairly  faced  the  answer,  can  know 
the  horror,  the  blackness,  the  emptiness  of  the  abyss  into 
which  it  gives  one  a  glimpse.  Blackness  of  darkness — no 
stand-point,  no  vantage-ground — it  is  a  horror  of  horrors  ; 
it  haunted  me  then  day  and  night,  and  constituted  itself 
not  only  my  companion  but  my  tyrant. 

I  was  in  bad  health  too.  At  night,  when  the  joyless 
day  was  over,  the  work  done,  the  play  played  out,  the 
smell  of  the  footlights  and  gas  and  the  dust  of  the  stage 
dispersed,  a  deadly  weariness  used  to  overcome  me :  an 
utter,  tired,  miserable  apathy ;  and  alone,  surrounded  by 
loneliness,  I  let  my  morbid  thoughts  carry  me  whither  they 
would.  It  had  gone  so  far  that  I  had  even  begun  to  say 
to  myself  lately : 


I24  THE  FIRST  VIOLIX. 

"  Friedhelm  Helfen,  you  are  not  wanted.  On  the  other 
side  this  life  is  a  nothingness  so  large  that  you  will  be  as 
nothing  in  it.  Launch  yourself  into  it.  The  story  that 
suicide  is  wrong  and  immoral  is,  like  other  things,  to  be 
taken  with  reservation.  There  is  no  absolute  right  and 
wrong.  Suicide  is  sometimes  the  highest  form  of  right  and 
reason." 

This  mood  was  strong  upon  me  on  that  particular  day, 
and  as  I  paced  along  the  Schadowstrasse  towards  the 
Wehrhahn ,  where  my  lodging  was,  the  very  stones  seemed 
to  cry  out,  "The  world  is  weary,  and  you  are  not  wanted 
in  it." 

A  heavy,  cold,  beating  rain  began  to  fall.  I  entered 
the  room  which  served  me  as  living  and  sleeping  room. 
From  habit  I  ate  and  drank  at  the  same  restauration  as 
that  frequented  by  my  confreres  of  the  orchestra.  I  lean- 
ed my  elbows  upon  the  table,  and  listened  drearily  to  the 
beat  of  the  rain  upon  the  pane.  Scattered  sheets  of  mu- 
sic containing,  some  great,  others  little  thoughts  lay  around 
me.  Lately  it  seemed  as  if  the  flavor  was  gone  from  them. 
The  other  night  Beethoven  himself  had  failed  to  move  me, 
and  I  accepted  it  as  a  sign  that  all  was  over  with  me. 
In  an  hour  it  would  be  time  to  go  out  and  seek  dinner,  if 
I  made  up  my  mind  to  have  any  dinner.  Then  there 
would  be  the  afternoon — the  dreary,  wet  afternoon,  the 
tramp  through  the  soaking  streets,  with  the  lamplight 
shining  into  the  pools  of  water,  to  the  theatre ;  the  lights, 
the  people,  the  weary  round  of  painted  ballet-girls,  and  ac- 
customed voices  and  faces  of  audience  and  performers. 
The  same  number  of  bars  to  play,  the  same  to  leave  un- 
played ;  the  whole  dreary  story,  gone  through  so  often  be- 
fore, to  be  gone  through  so  often  again. 

The  restauration  did  not  see  me  that  day ;  I  remained 
in  the  house.  There  was  to  be  a  great  concert  in  the 
course  of  a  week  or  two ;  the  "Tower  of  Babel"  was  to  be 
given  at  it.  I  had  the  music.  I  practiced  my  part,  and 
I  remember  being  a  little  touched  with  the  exquisite  love- 
liness of  one  of  the  choruses,  that  sung  by  the  "  Children 
of  Japhet"  as  they  wander  sadly  away  with  their  punish- 
ment upon  them  into  the  //  'aUdnsamkeit  (that  lovely  and 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  12$ 

untranslatable  word)  one  of  the  purest  and  most  pathetic 
melodies  ever  composed. 

It  was  dark  that  afternoon.  I  had  not  stirred  from  my 
hole  since  coming  in  from  the  Probe — had  neither  eaten 
nor  drunk,  and  was  in  full  possession  of  the  uninterrupted 
solitude  coveted  by  busy  men.  Once  I  thought  that  it 
would  have  been  pleasant  if  some  one  had  known  and 
cared  for  me  well  enough  to  run  up  the  stairs,  put  his  head 
into  the  room,  and  talk  to  me  about  his  affairs. 

To  the  sound  of  gustily  blowing  wind  and  rain  beating 
on  the  pane,  the  afternoon  hours  dragged  slowly  by,  and 
the  world  went  on  outside  and  around  me  until  about  five 
o'clock.  Then  there  came  a  knock  at  my  door,  an  occur- 
rence so  unprecedented  that  I  sat  and  stared  at  the  said 
door  instead  of  speaking,  as  if  Edgar  Foe's  raven  had  put 
in  a  sudden  appearance  and  begun  to  croak  its  "  never- 
more" at  me. 

The  door  was  opened.  A  dreadful,  dirty-looking  young 
woman,  a  servant  of  the  house,  stood  in  the  door-way. 

"What  do  you  want?"  I  inquired. 

A  gentleman  wished  to  speak  to  me. 

"  Bring  him  in  then,"  said  I,  somewhat  testily. 

She  turned  and  requested  some  one  to  come  forward. 
There  entered  a  tall  and  stately  man,  with  one  of  those 
rare  faces,  beautiful  in  feature,  bright  in  expression,  which 
one  meets  sometimes,  and  having  once  seen,  never  forgets. 
He  carried  what  I  took  at  first  for  a  bundle  done  up  in  a 
dark  green  plaid,  but  as  I  stood  up  and  looked  at  him  I 
perceived  that  the  plaid  was  wrapped  round  a  child. 
Lost  in  astonishment  I  gazed  at  him  in  silence. 

"I  beg  you  will  excuse  my  intruding  upon  you  thus," 
said  he,  bowing,  and  I  involuntarily  returned  his  bow, 
wondering  more  and  more  what  he  could  be.  His  accent 
was  none  of  the  Elberthal  one;  it  was  fine,  refined, 
polished. 

"How  can  I  serve  you?"  I  asked,  impressed  by  his 
voice,  manner,  and  appearance:  agreeably  impressed.  A 
little  masterful  he  looked — a  little  imperious,  but  not  un- 
approachable, with  nothing  ungenial  in  his  pride. 

"You  could  serve  me  very  much  by  giving  me  one  or 


I26  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

two  pieces  of  information.  In  the  first  place  let  me  intro- 
duce myself;  you,  I  think,  are  Herr  Helfen  ?"  I  bowed. 
"  My  name  is  Eugen  Courvoisier.  I  am  the  new  mem- 
ber of  your  stadtisches  Onhester." 

"  O,  was  /"  said  I,  within  myself.  "  That  our  new  first 
violin ! " 

"And  this  is  my  son,"  he  added,  looking  down  at  the 
plaid  bundle,  which  he  held  very  carefully  and  tenderly. 
"  If  you  will  tell  me  at  what  time  the  opera  begins,  what 
it  is  to-night,  and  finally,  if  there  is  a  room  to  be  had,  per- 
haps in  this  house,  even  for  one  night.  I  must  find  a 
nest  for  this  Vogelein  as  soon  as  I  possibly  can." 

"  I  believe  the  opera  begins  at  seven,"  said  I,  still  gazing 
at  him  in  astonishment,  with  open  mouth  and  incredulous 
eyes.  Our  orchestra  contained  amongst  its  sufficiently 
varied  specimens  of  nationality  and  appearance  nothing 
in  the  very  least  like  this  man,  beside  whom  I  felt  myself 
blundering,  clumsy,  and  unpolished.  It  was  not  mere 
natural  grace  of  manner.  He  had  that,  but  it  had  been 
cultivated  somewhere,  and  cultivated  highly. 

"Yes?"  he  said. 

"  At  seven — yes.  It  is  Tannhauser  to-night.  And  the 
rooms — I  believe  they  have  rooms  in  the  house." 

"Ah,  then  I  will  inquire  about  it,"  said  he,  with  an  ex- 
ceedingly open  and  delightful  smile.  "I  thank  you  for 
telling  me.  Adieu,  mcin  Herr." 

"Is  he  asleep?"  I  asked  abruptly,  and  pointing  to  the 
bundle. 

"Yes;  arrnes  Kerkhen  !  just  now  he  is,"  said  the  young 
man. 

He  was  quite  young,  I  saw.  In  that  half  light  I  sup- 
posed him  even  younger  than  he  really  was.  He  looked 
down  at  the  bundle  again  and  smiled. 

"  I  should  like  to  see  him,"  said  I,  politely  and  grace- 
fully, seized  by  an  impulse  of  which  I  felt  ashamed,  but 
which  I  yet  could  not  resist. 

With  that  I  stepped  forward  and  came  to  examine  the 
bundle.  He  moved  the  plaid  a  little  aside  and  showed 
me  a  child — a  very  young,  small,  helpless  child,  with 
closed  eyes,  immensely  long,  black,  curving  lashes,  and 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


127 


fine,  delicate  black  brows.  The  small  face  was  flushed, 
but  even  in  sleep  this  child  looked  melancholy.  Yet  he 
was  a  lovely  child — most  beautiful  and  most  pathetic  to 
see. 

I  looked  at  the  small  face  in  silence,  and  a  great  desire 
came  upon  me  to  look  at  it  oftener — to  see  it  again,  then 
up  at  that  of  the  father.  How  unlike  the  two  faces! 
Now  that  I  fairly  looked  at  the  man  I  found  he  was  dif- 
ferent from  what  I  had  thought;  older,  sparer,  with  more 
sharply-cut  features.  I  could  not  tell  what  the  child's 
eyes  might  be — those  of  the  father  were  piercing  as  an 
eagle's;  clear,  open,  strange.  There  was  sorrow  in  the 
face,  I  saw,  as  I  looked  so  earnestly  into  it;  and  it  was 
worn  as  if  with  a  keen  inner  life.  This  glance  was  one 
of  those  which  penetrate  deep,  not  the  glance  of  a  mo- 
ment, but  a  revelation  for  life. 

"He  is  very  beautiful,"  said  I. 

"Nicht  wahr?"  said  the  other,  softly. 

"Look  here,"  I  added,  going  to  a  sofa  which  was 
strewn  with  papers,  books,  and  other  paraphernalia; 
"couldn't  we  put  him  here,  and  then  go  and  see  about 
the  rooms?  Such  a  young,  tender  child  must  not  be  car- 
ried about  the  passages,  and  the  house  is  full  of  draughts." 

I  do  not  know  what  had  so  suddenly  supplied  me  with 
this  wisdom  as  to  what  was  good  for  a  "young,  tender 
child,"  nor  can  I  account  for  the  sudden  deep  interest 
which  possessed  me.  I  dashed  the  things  off  the  sofa, 
beat  the  dust  from  it,  desired  him  to  wait  one  moment 
while  I  rushed  to  my  bed  to  ravish  it  of  its  pillow.  Then 
with  the  sight  of  the  bed  (I  was  buying  my  experience) 
I  knew  that  that,  and  not  the  sofa,  was  the  place  for  the 
child,  and  said  so. 

"  Put  him  here,  do  put  him  here ! "  I  besought,  earnestly. 
"He  will  sleep  for  a  time  here,  won't  he?" 

"You  are  very  good,"  said  my  visitor,  hesitating  a  mo- 
ment. 

"Put  him  there!"  said  I,  flushed  with  excitement,  and 
with  the  hitherto  unknown  joy  of  being  able  to  offer  hos- 
pitality. 

Courvoisier  looked  meditatively  at  me  for  a  short  time, 


12g  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN'. 

then  laid  the  child  upon  the  bed,  and  arranged  the  plaid 
around  it  as  skillfully  and  as  quickly  as  a  woman  would 
have  done  it. 

"How  clever  he  must  be,"  I  thought,  looking  at  him 
with  awe,  and  with  little  less  awe  contemplating  the  mo- 
tionless child. 

"Wouldn't  you  like  something  to  put  over  him?"  I 
asked,  looking  excitedly  about.  "I  have  an  overcoat. 
I'll  lend  it  you."  And  I  was  rushing  off  to  fetch  it,  but 
he  laughingly  laid  his  hand  upon  my  arm. 

"Let  him  alone,"  said  he;  "he's  all  right." 

"  He  won't  fall  off,  will  he  ?  "  I  asked,  anxiously. 

"No;  don't  be  alarmed.  Now,  if  you  will  be  so  good, 
we  will  see  about  the  -rooms." 

"  Dare  you  leave  him  ?  "  I  asked,  still  with  anxiety,  and 
looking  back  as  we  went  towards  the  door. 

"I  dare  because  I  must,"  replied  he. 

He  closed  the  door,  and  we  went  down-stairs  to  seek 
the  persons  in  authority.  Courvoisier  related  his  business 
and  condition,  and  asked  to  see  rooms.  The  woman 
hesitated  when  she  heard  there  was  a  child. 

"The  child  will  never  trouble  you,  madam,"  said  he, 
quietly,  but  rather  as  if  the  patience  of  his  look  were 
forced. 

"  No,  never ! "  I  added,  fervently.  "  I  will  answer  for 
that,  Frau  Schmidt." 

A  quick  glance,  half  gratitude  half  amusement,  shot 
from  his  eyes  as  the  woman  went  on  to  say  that  she  only 
took  gentlemen  lodgers,  and  could  not  do  with  ladies, 
children  and  nurse-maids.  They  wanted  so  much  attend- 
ing to,  and  she  did  not  profess  to  open  her  house  to  them. 

"You  will  not  be  troubled  with  either  lady  or  nurse- 
maid," said  he.  "  I  take  charge  of  the  child  myself.  You 
will  not  know  that  he  is  in  the  house." 

"  But  your  wife — "  she  began. 

"There  will  be  no  one  but  myself  and  my  little  boy," 
he  replied,  ever  politely,  but  ever,  as  it  seemed  to  me, 
with  repressed  pain  or  irritation. 

"So!"  said  the  woman,  treating  him  to  a  long,  curious, 
unsparing  look  of  wonder  and  inquiry,  which  made  me 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


129 


feel  hot  all  over.  He  returned  the  glance  quietly,  and  un- 
smilingly.  After  a  pause  she  said: 

"  Well,  I  suppose  I  must  see  about  it,  but  it  will  be  the 
first  child  I  ever  took  into  the  house  in  that  way,  and  only 
as  a  favor  to  Herr  Helfen." 

I  was  greatly  astonished,  not  having  known  before  that 
I  stood  in  such  high  esteem.  Courvoisier  threw  me  a 
smiling  glance  as  we  followed  the  woman  up  the  stairs,  up 
to  the  top  of  the  house,  where  I  lived.  Throwing  open  a 
door,  she  said  there  were  two  rooms  which  must  go  to- 
gether. Courvoisier  shook  his  head. 

"I  do  not  want  two  rooms,"  said  he,  "or  rather,  I 
don't  think  I  can  afford  them.  What  do  you  charge  ?  " 

She  told  him. 

"  If  it  were  so  much,"  said  he,  naming  a  smaller  sum, 
"  I  could  do  it." 

" Nie !"  said  the  woman,  curtly;  "for  that  I  can't'  do 
it.  Um  Gotteswillen  !  One  must  live." 

She  paused,  reflecting,  and  I  watched  anxiously.  She 
was  going  to  refuse.  My  heart  sank.  Rapidly  reviewing 
my  own  circumstances  and  finances,  and  making  a  hasty 
calculation  in  my  mind,  I  said: 

"Why  can't  we  arrange  it?  Here  is  a  big  room  and  a 
little  room.  Make  the  little  room  into  a  bedroom,  and 
use  the  big  room  for  a  sitting-room.  I  will  join  at  it,  and 
so  it  will  come  within  the  price  you  wish  to  pay." 

The  woman's  face  cleared  a  little.  She  had  listened 
with  a  clouded  expression  and  her  head  on  one  side. 
Now  she  straightened  herself,  drew  herself  up,  smoothed 
down  her  apron,  and  said: 

"  Yes,  that  lets  itself  be  heard.  If  Herr  Helfen  agreed 
to  that,  she  would  like  it." 

"  Oh,  but  I  can't  think  of  putting  you  to  the  extra  ex- 
pense," said  Courvoisier. 

"  I  should  like  it,"  said  I.  "  I  have  often  wished  I  had 
a  little  more  room,  but,  like  you,  I  couldn't  afford  the 
whole  expense.  We  can  have  a  piano,  and  the  child  can 
play  there.  Don't  you  see?"  I  added,  with  great  earnest- 
ness and  touching  his  arm.  "  It  is  a  large  airy  room ;  he 
can  run  about  there,  and  make  as  much  noise  as  he  likes." 
9 


I3o  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

He  still  seemed  to  hesitate. 

"  I  can  afford  it,"  said  I.  "  I've  no  one  but  myself,  un- 
luckily. If  you  don't  object  to  my  company,  let  us  try  it. 
We  shall  be  neighbors  in  the  orchestra." 

"So!" 

"  Why  not  at  home  too  ?  I  think  it  an  excellent  plan. 
Let  us  decide  it  so." 

I  was  very  urgent  about  it.  An  hour  ago  I  could  not 
have  conceived  anything  which  could  make  me  so  urgent 
and  set  my  heart  beating  so. 

"  If  I  did  not  think  it  would  inconvenience  you,"  he 
began. 

"Then  it  is  settled?"  said  I.  "Now  let  us  go  and  see 
what  kind  of  furniture  there  is  in  that  big  room." 

Without  allowing  him  to  utter  any  further  objection  I 
dragged  him  to  the  large  room,  and  we  surveyed  it.  The 
woman,  who  for  some  unaccountable  reason  appeared  to 
have  recovered  her  good  temper  in  a  marvelous  manner, 
said  quite  cheerfully  that  she  would  send  the  maid  to 
make  the  smaller  room  ready  as  a  bedroom  for  two. 
"One  of  us  won't  take  much  room,"  said  Courvoisier 
with  a  laugh,  to  which  she  assented  with  a  smile,  and 
then  left  us.  The  big  room  was  long,  low,  and  rather 
dark.  Beams  were  across  the  ceiling,  and  two  not  very 
large  windows  looked  upon  the  street  below,  across  to 
two  similar  windows  of  another  lodging-house;  a  little  to 
the  left  of  which  was  the  Tonhalle.  The  floor  was  carpet- 
less,  but  clean;  there  was  a  big  square  table,  and  some 
chairs. 

"There,"  said  I,  drawing  Courvoisier  to  the  window, 
and  pointing  across;  "there  is  one  scene  of  your  future 
exertions,  the  Stadtische  Tonhalle" 

"So!"  said  he,  turning  away  again  from  the  window — 
it  was  as  dark  as  ever  outside — and  looking  round  the 
room  again.  "This  is  a  dull-looking  place,"  he  added, 
gazing  around  it. 

"We'll  soon  make  it  different,"  said  I,  rubbing  my 
hands  and  gazing  round  the  room  with  avidity.  "  I  have 
long  wished  to  be  able  to  inhabit  this  room.  We  must 
make  it  more  cheerful,  though,  before  the  child  comes  to 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  13 1 

it.  We'll  have  the  stove  lighted,  and  we'll  knock  up 
some  shelves,  and  we'll  have  a  piano  in,  and  the  sofa 
from  my  room,  nicht  wahr?  Oh,  we'll  make  a  place  of 
it,  I  can  tell  you." 

He  looked  at  me  as  if  struck  with  my  enthusiasm,  and 
I  bustled  about.  We  set  to  work  to  make  the  room  hab- 
itable. He  was  out  for  a  short  time  at  the  station  and 
returned  with  the  luggage  which  he  had  left  there. 
While  he  was  away  I  stole  into  my  room  and  took  a  good 
look  at  my  new  treasure;  he  still  slept  peacefully  and 
calmly  on.  We  were  deep  in  impromptu  carpentering  and 
contrivances  for  use  and  comfort,  when  it  occurred  to  me 
to  look  at  my  watch. 

"Five  minutes  to  seven!"  I  almost  yelled,  dashing 
wildly  into  my  room  to  wash  my  hands  and  get  my  violin. 
Courvoisier  followed  me.  The  child  was  awake.  I  felt 
a  horrible  sense  of  guilt  as  I  saw  it  looking  at  me  with 
great,  soft,  solemn,  brown  eyes,  not  in  the  least  those  of 
its  father,  but  it  did  not  move.  I  said  apologetically  that 
I  feared  I  had  wakened  it. 

"  Oh  no!  He's  been  awake  for  some  time,"  said  Cour- 
voisier. The  child  saw  him,  and  stretched  out  its  arms 
towards  him. 

"  Na  !  junger  Taugenichts ! "  he  said,  taking  it  up  and 
kissing  it.  "  Thou  must  stay  here  till  I  come  back.  Wilt 
be  happy  till  I  come?" 

The  answer  made  by  the  mournful-looking  child  was  a 
singular  one.  It  put  both  tiny  arms  around  the  big  man's 
neck,  laid  its  face  for  a  moment  against  his,  and  loosed 
him  again.  Neither  word  nor  sound  did  it  emit  during 
the  process.  A  feeling  altogether  new  and  astonishing 
overcame  me.  I  turned  hastily  away,  and  as  I  picked  up 
my  violin-case,  was  amazed  to  find  my  eyes  dim.  My 
visitors  were  something  unprecedented  to  me. 

"  You  are  not  compelled  to  go  to  the  theatre  to-night, 
you  know,  unless  you  like,"  I  suggested,  as  we  went 
down-stairs. 

"Thanks,  it  is  as  well  to  begin  at  once." 

On  the  lowest  landing  we  met  Frau  Schmidt. 

"Where  are  you  going,  mcinc  HUTCH?"  she  demanded. 


1 3  2  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

"To  work,  madame,"  he  replied,  lifting  his  cap  with  a 
courtesy  which  seemed  to  disarm  her. 

"  But  the  child  ?  "  she  demanded. 

"  Do  not  trouble  yourself  about  him." 

"  Is  he  asleep  ?  " 

"  Not  just  now.     He  is  all  right,  though." 

She  gave  us  a  look  which  meant  volumes.  I  pulled 
Courvoisier  out. 

" Come  along,  do! "  cried  I.  "She  will  keep  you  there 
for  half  an  hour,  and  it  is  time  now." 

We  rushed  along  the  streets  too  rapidly  to  have  time  or 
breath  to  speak,  and  it  was  five  minutes  after  the  time 
when  we  scrambled  into  the  orchestra,  and  found  that  the 
overture  was  already  begun. 

Though  there  is  certainly  not  much  time  for  observing 
one's  fellows  when  one  is  helping  in  the  overture  to 
Tannhduser,  yet  I  saw  the  many  curious  and  astonished 
glances  which  were  cast  towards  our  new  member, 
glances  of  which  he  took  no  notice,  simply  because  he  ap- 
parently did  not  see  them.  He  had  the  finest  absence  of 
self-consciousness  that  I  ever  saw. 

The  first  act  of  the  opera  was  over,  and  it  fell  to  my 
share  to  make  Courvoisier  known  to  his  fellow-musicians. 
I  introduced  him  to  the  Director,  who  was  not  Von  Fran- 
cius,  nor  any  friend  of  his.  Then  we  retired  to  one  of  the 
small  rooms  on  one  side  of  the  orchestra. 

u  Hundewetter Jn  said  one  of  the  men,  shivering. 
"Have  you  traveled  far  to-day?"  he  inquired  of  Cour- 
voisier, by  way  of  opening  the  conversation. 

"From  Koln  only." 

"Live  there?" 

"  No." 

The  man  continued  his  catechism,  but  in  another  di- 
rection. 

"  Are  you  a  friend  of  Helfen's  ?  " 

"  I  rather  think  Helfen  has  been  a  friend  to  me,"  said 
Courvoisier,  smiling. 

"  Have  you  found  lodgings  already?" 

"Yes." 

"So!"  said  his  interlocutor,  rather  puzzled  with  the  new 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


133 


arrival.  I  remember  the  scene  well.  Half-a-dozen  of  the 
men  were  standing  in  one  corner  of  the  room,  smoking, 
drinking  beer,  and  laughing  over  some  not  very  brilliant 
joke;  we  three  were  a  little  apart.  Courvoisier,  stately 
and  imposing-looking,  and  with  that  fine  manner  of  his, 
politely  answering  his  interrogator,  a  small,  sharp-featured 
man,  who  looked  up  to  him  and  rattled  complacently 
away,  while  I  sat  upon  the  table  amongst  the  fiddle-cases 
and  beer-glasses,  my  foot  on  a  chair,  my  chin  in  my  hand, 
feeling  my  cheeks  glow,  and  a  strange  sense  of  dizziness 
and  weakness  all  over  me,  a  lightness  in  my  head  which 
I  could  not  understand.  It  had  quite  escaped  me  that  I 
had  neither  eaten  nor  drunk  since  my  breakfast  at  eight 
o'clock,  on  a  cup  of  coffee  and  a  dry  Brodchen,  and  it  was 
now  twelve  hours  later. 

The  pause  was  not  a  long  one,  and  we  returned  to  our 
places.  But  Tannhauser  is  not  a  short  opera.  As  time 
went  on  my  sensations  of  illness  and  faintness  increased. 
During  the  second  pause  I  remained  in  my  place. 
Courvoisier  presently  came  and  sat  beside  me. 

"  I'm  afraid  you  feel  ill,"  said  he. 

I  denied  it.  But  though  I  struggled  on  to  the  end,  yet 
at  last  a  deadly  faintness  overcame  me.  As  the  curtain 
went  down  amidst  the  applause,  everything  reeled  around 
me.  I  heard  the  bustle  of  the  others — of  the  audience 
going  away.  I  myself  could  not  move. 

"  Was  ist  denn  mit  ihm  ?  "  I  heard  Courvoisier  say  as 
he  stooped  over  me. 

"  Is  that  Friedhelm  Helfen  ?  "  asked  Karl  Linders,  sur- 
veying me.  "  Potz  blitz  /  he  looks  like  a  corpse !  he's  been 
at  his  old  tricks  again,  starving  himself.  I  expect  he  has 
touched  nothing  the  whole  day." 

"  Let's  get  him  out  and  give  him  some  brandy,"  said 
Courvoisier.  "  Lend  him  an  arm,  and  I'll  give  him  one 
on  this  side." 

Together  they  hauled  me  down  to  the  retiring-room. 

"  Eif  he  wants  a  schnapps,  or  something  of  the  kind," 
said  Karl,  who  seemed  to  think  the  whole  affair  an  excel- 
lent joke.  "  Look  here,  alter  Narr  !  "  he  added ;  "  you've 
been  going  without  anything  to  eat,  nicht?  " 


I34  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

"  I  believe  I  have,"  I  assented,  feebly.  "  But  I'm  all 
right ;  I'll  go  home." 

Rejecting  Karl's  pressing  entreaties  to  join  him  at  sup- 
per at  his  favorite  Wirthschaft,  we  went  home,  purchasing 
our  supper  on  the  way.  Courvoisier's  first  step  was 
towards  the  place  where  he  had  left  the  child.  He  was 
gone. 

"  Verschwunden !  "  cried  he,  striding  off  to  the  sleep- 
ing-room, whither  I  followed  him.  The  little  lad  had 
been  undressed  and  put  to  bed  in  a  small  crib,  and  was 
sleeping  serenely. 

"  That's  Frau  Schmidt,  who  can't  do  with  children  and 
nurse-maids,"  said  I,  laughing. 

"  It's  very  kind  of  her,"  said  he,  as  he  touched  the 
child's  cheek  slightly  with  his  little  finger,  and  then,  with- 
out another  word,  returned  to  the  other  room,  and  we  sat 
down  to  our  long-delayed  supper. 

"  What  on  earth  made  you  spend  more  than  twelve 
hours  without  food  ?  "  he  asked  me,  laying  down  his  knife 
and  fork,  and  looking  at  me. 

"  I'll  tell  you  sometime  perhaps,  not  now,"  said  I,  for 
there  had  begun  to  dawn  upon  my  mind,  like  a  sun-ray, 
the  idea  that  life  held  an  interest  for  me — two  interests — 
a  friend  and  a  child.  To  a  miserable,  lonely  wretch  like 
me,  the  idea  was  divine. 


CHAPTER  II. 

"Though  nothing  can  bring  back  the  hour 
Of  splendor  in  the  grass,  of  glory  in  the  flower, 
We  will  grieve  not — rather  find 
Strength  in  what  remains  behind; 
In  the  primal  sympathy 
Which  having  been,  must  ever  be. 
In  the  soothing  thoughts  that  spring 
Out  of  human  suffering! 
In  the  faith  that  looks  through  death — 
In  years,  that  bring  the  philosophic  mind.  " 

WORDSWORTH. 

FROM  that  October  afternoon  I  was  a  man  saved  from 
myself.  Courvoisier  had  said,  in  answer  to  my 
earnest  entreaties  about  joining  house-keeping :  "  We  will 
try — you  may  not  like  it,  and  if  so,  remember  you  are  at 
liberty  to  withdraw  when  you  will."  The  answer  con- 
tented me,  because  I  knew  that  I  should  not  try  to  with- 
draw. 

Our  friendship  progressed  by  such  quiet,  imperceptible 
degrees,  each  one  knotting  the  past  more  closely  and 
inextricably  with  the  present,  that  I  could  by  no  means 
relate  them  if  I  wished  it.  But  I  do  not  wish  it.  I  only 
know,  and  am  content  with  it,  that  it  has  fallen  to  my  lot 
to  be  blessed  with  that  most  precious  of  all  earthly  pos- 
sessions, the  "  friend  "  that  "  sticketh  closer  than  a  bro- 
ther. "  Our  union  has  grown  and  remained  not  merely 
"fast  und  treu, "  but  immovable,  unshakable. 

There  was  first  the  child.  He  was  two  years  old  :  a 
strange,  weird,  silent  child,  very  beautiful — as  the  son  of 
his  father  could  scarcely  fail  to  be — but  with  a  different 


136 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


kind  of  beauty.  How  still  he  was,  and  how  patient! 
Not  a  fretful  child,  not  given  to  crying  or  complaint ;  fond 
of  resting  in  one  place,  with  solemn,  thoughtful  eyes' 
fixed,  when  his  father  was  there,  upon  him;  when  his 
father  was  not  there,  upon  the  strip  of  sky  which  was  to 
be  seen  through  the  window  above  the  house-tops. 

The  child's  name  was  Sigmund ;  he  displayed  a  friendly 
disposition  towards  me,  indeed  he  was  passively  friendly 
and — if  one  may  say  such  a  thing  of  a  baby — courteous 
to  all  he  came  in  contact  with.  He  had  inherited  his 
father's  polished  manner;  one  saw  that  when  he  grew  up 
he  would  be  a  "  gentleman,"  in  the  finest  outer  sense  of 
the  word.  His  inner  life  he  kept  concealed  from  us.  I 
believe  he  had  some  method  of  communicating  his  ideas 
to  Eugen,  even  if  he  never  spoke.  Eugen  could  never 
conceal  his  own  mood  from  the  child;  it  knew — let  him 
feign  otherwise  never  so  cunningly — exactly  what  he  felt, 
glad  or  sad,  or  between  the  two,  and  no  acting  could 
deceive  him.  It  was  a  strange,  intensely  interesting  study 
to  me ;  one  to  which  I  daily  returned  with  fresh  avidity. 
He  would  let  me  take  him  in  my  arms  and  talk  to  him; 
would  sometimes,  after  looking  at  me  long  and  earnestly, 
break  into  a  smile — a  strange,  grave,  sweet  smile.  Then 
I  could  do  no  otherwise  than  set  him  hastily  down  and 
look  away,  for  so  unearthly  a  smile  I  had  never  seen.  He 
was,  though  fragile,  not  an  unhealthy  child;  though  so 
delicately  formed,  and  intensely  sensitive  to  nervous 
shocks,  had  nothing  of  the  coward  in  him,  as  was  proved 
to  us  in  a  thousand  ways :  shivered  through  and  through 
his  little  frame  at  the  sight  of  a  certain  picture  to  which 
he  had  taken  a  great  antipathy,  a  picture  which  hung  in 
the  public  gallery  at  the  Tonhalle :  he  hated  it,  because 
of  a  certain  evil-looking  man  portrayed  in  it;  but  when 
his  father,  taking  his  hand,  said  to  him,  "  Go,  Sigmund, 
and  look  at  that  man ;  I  wish  thee  to  look  at  him, "  went, 
without  turn  or  waver,  and  gazed  long  and  earnestly  at 
the  low  type,  bestial  visage  portrayed  to  him.  Eugen  had 
trodden  noiselessly  behind  him ;  I  watched,  and  he 
watched,  how  his  two  little  fists  clenched  themselves  at 
his  sides,  while  his  gaze  never  wavered,  never  wandered, 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


137 


till  at  last  Eugen,  with  a  strange  expression,  caught  him 
in  his  arms  and  half  killed  him  with  kisses. 

"  Mein  Liebling!"  he  murmured,  as  if  utterly  satisfied 
with  him. 

Courvoisier  himself?  There  were  a  great  many  strong 
and  positive  qualities  about  this  man,  which  in  them- 
selves would  have  set  him  somewhat  apart  from  other 
men.  Thus  he  had  crotchety  ideas  about  truth  and 
honor,  such  as  one  might  expect  from  so  knightly-look- 
ing a  personage.  It  was  Karl  Linders  who,  at  a  later 
period  of  our  acquaintance,  amused  himself  by  chalk- 
ing up,  "Prinz  Eugen,  der  edle  Ritter,"  beneath  his 
name.  His  musical  talent — or  rather  genius,  it  was  more 
than  talent — was  at  that  time  not  one-fifth  part  known  to 
me,  yet  even  what  I  saw  excited  my  wonder.  But  these, 
and  a  long  list  of  other  active  characteristics,  all  faded 
into  insignificance  before  the  towering  passion  of  his 
existence — his  love  for  his  child.  It  was  strange,  it  was 
touching,  to  see  the  bond  between  father  and  son.  The 
child's  thoughts  and  words,  as  told  in  his  eyes  and  from 
his  lips,  formed  the  man's  philosophy.  I  believe  Eugen 
confided  everything  to  his  boy.  His  first  thought  in  the 
morning,  his  last  at  night,  was  for  der  Kleine.  His  leisure 
was — I  cannot  say  "given  up"  to  the  boy — but  it  was 
always  passed  with  him. 

Courvoisier  soon  gained  a  reputation  among  our  com- 
rades for  being  a  sham  and  a  delusion.  They  said  that  to 
look  at  him  one  would  suppose  that  no  more  genial,  jovial 
fellow  could  exist — there  was  kindliness  in  his  glance, 
ban  camaraderie  in  his  voice,  a  genial,  open,  human 
sympathetic  kind  of  influence  in  his  nature,  and  in  all  he 
did,  "And  yet,"  said  Karl  Linders  to  me,  with  gesticula- 
tion, "one  never  can  get  him  to  go  anywhere.  One  may 
invite  him,  one  may  try  to  be  friends  with  him,  but,  no! 
off  he  goes  home !  What  does  the  fellow  want  at  home  ? 
He  behaves  like  a  young  miss  of  fifteen,  whose  governess 
won't  let  her  mix  with  vulgar  companions." 

I  laughed,  despite  myself,  at  this  tirade  of  Karl.  So 
that  was  how  Eugen's  behavior  struck  outsiders ! 

"And  you  are  every  bit  as  bad  as  he  is,  and  as  soft — 


I38  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

he  has  made  you  so,"  went  on  Linders,  vehemently.  "It 
isn't  right.  You  two  ought  to  be  leaders  outside  as  well 
as  in,  but  you  walk  yourselves  away,  and  stay  at  home . 
At  home,  indeed !  Let  green  goslings  and  grandfathers 
stay  at  home." 

Indeed,  Herr  Linders  was  not  a  person  who  troubled 
home  much ;  spending  his  time  from  morning  to  night 
between  theatre  and  concert-room,  restauration  and  Ver- 
ein. 

"  What  do  you  do  at  home  ?  "  he  asked,  irately. 

"That's  our  concern,  mein  Lieber"  said  I,  composedly, 
thinking  of  young  Sigmund,  whose  existence  was  un- 
known except  to  our  two  selves,  and  laughing. 

"  Are  you  composing  a  symphonic  ?  or  an  opera  buffa  ? 
You  might  tell  a  fellow." 

I  laughed  again,  and  said  we  led  a  peaceable  life,  as 
honest  citizens  should;  and  added,  laying  my  hand  upon 
his  shoulder,  for  I  had  more  of  a  leaning  towards  Karl, 
scamp  though  he  was,  than  to  any  of  the  others,  "You 
might  do  worse  than  follow  our  example,  old  fellow." 

"Bah!"  said  he,  with  unutterable  contempt.  "I'm  a 
man;  not  a  milksop.  Besides,  how  do  I  know  what 
your  example  is  ?  You  say  you  behave  yourselves ;  but 
how  am  I  to  know  it  ?  I'll  drop  upon  you  unawares  and 
catch  you  sometime.  See  if  I  don't." 

The  next  evening,  by  a  rare  chance  with  us,  was  a  free 
one — there  was  no  opera  and  no  concert;  we  had  had 
Probe  that  morning,  and  were  at  liberty  to  follow  the 
devices  and  desires  of  our  own  hearts  that  evening. 

These  devices  and  desires  led  us  straight  home,  fol- 
lowed by  a  sneering  laugh  from  Herr  Linders,  which 
vastly  amused  me.  The  year  was  drawing  to  a  close. 
Christmas  was  nigh :  the  weather  was  cold  and  un- 
friendly. Our  stove  was  lighted;  our  lamp  burned  pleas- 
antly on  the  table ;  our  big  room  looked  homely  and 
charming  by  these  evening  lights.  Master  Sigmund  was 
wide  awake  in  honor  of  the  occasion,  and  sat  upon  my 
knee  whilst  his  father  played  the  fiddle.  I  have  not 
spoken  of  his  playing  before — it  was,  in  its  way,  unique. 
It  was  not  a  violin  that  he  played — it  was  a  spirit  that 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN,  I<39 

he  invoked — and  a  strange  answer  it  sometimes  gave 
forth  to  his  summons.  To-night  he  had  taken  it  up  sud- 
denly, and  sat  playing,  without  book,  a  strange  melody 
which  wrung  my  heart — full  of  minor  cadences,  with  an 
infinite  wail  and  weariness  in  it.  I  closed  my  eyes  and 
listened.  It  was  sad,  but  it  was  absorbing.  When  I 
opened  my  eyes  again  and  looked  down,  I  found  that 
tears  were  running  from  Sigmund's  eyes.  He  was  sob-1 
bing  quietly,  his  head  against  my  breast. 

"  I  say,  Eugen  !     Look  here ! " 

"  Is  he  crying  ?  Poor  little  chap !  He'll  have  a  good 
deal  to  go  through  before  he  has  learned  all  his  lessons," 
said  Eugen,  laying  down  his  violin. 

"What  was  that?     I  never  heard  it  before." 

"  I  have,  often  "  said  he,  resting  his  chin  upon  his  hand, 
"in  the  sound  of  streams — in  the  rush  of  a  crowd — upon 
a  mountain — yes,  even  alone  with  the  woman  I — "  He 
broke  off  abruptly. 

"But  never  on  a  violin  before  ?  "  said  I,  significantly. 

"  No,  never." 

"  Why  don't  you  print  some  of  those  impromptus  that 
you  are  always  making  ?  "  I  asked. 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders.  Ere  I  could  pursue  the 
question  some  one  knocked  at  the  door,  and  in  answer  to 
our  Herein!  appeared  a  handsome,  laughing  face,  and  a 
head  of  wavy  hair,  which,  with  a  tall,  shapely  figure,  I 
recognized  as  those  of  Karl  Linders. 

"  I  told  you  fellows  I'd  hunt  you  up,  and  I  always  keep 
my  word,"  said  he,  composedly.  "You  can't  very  well 
turn  me  out  for  calling  upon  you." 

He  advanced.  Courvoisier  rose,  and  with  a  courteous 
cordiality  offered  his  hand  and  drew  a  chair  up.  Karl 
came  forward,  looking  round,  smiling  and  chuckling  at 
the  success  of  his  experiment,  and  as  he  came  opposite  to 
me  his  eyes  fell  upon  those  of  the  child,  who  had  raised 
his  head  and  was  staring  gravely  at  him. 

Never  shall  I  forget  the  start — the  look  of  amaze,  al- 
most of  fear,  which  shot  across  the  face  of  Herr  Linders. 
Amazement  would  be  a  weak  word  in  which  to  describe 
it.  He  stopped,  stood  stock-still  in  the  middle  of  the  room ; 


140 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


his  jaw  fell — he  gazed  from  one  to  the  other  of  us  in  fee- 
ble astonishment,  then  said  in  a  whisper : 

"  Donnerwetter  !     A  child  !  " 

"  Don't  use  bad  language  before  the  little  innocent," 
said  I,  enjoying  his  confusion. 

"Which  of  you  does  it  belong  to  ?  Is  it  he  or  she  ?  " 
he  inquired  in  an  awe-struck  and  alarmed  manner. 

"  His  name  is  Sigmund  Courvoisier,"  said  I,  with 
difficulty  preserving  my  gravity. 

"  Oh,  indeed!  I — I  wasn't  aware — "  began  Karl,  look- 
ing at  Eugen  in  such  a  peculiar  manner — half  respectful, 
half  timid,  half  ashamed — that  I  could  no  longer  contain 
my  feelings,  but  burst  into  such  a  shout  of  laughter  as  I 
had  not  enjoyed  for  years.  After  a  moment,  Eugen 
joined  in;  we  laughed  peal  after  peal  of  laughter,  while 
poor  Karl  stood  feebly  looking  from  one  to  the  other  of 
the  company — speechless — crestfallen. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said,  at  last,  "I  won't  intrude 
any  longer.  Good — " 

He  was  making  for  the  door,  but  Eugen  made  a  dash 
after  him,  turned  him  round,  and  pushed  him  into  a  chair. 

"Sit  down,  man,"  said  he,  stifling  his  laughter.  "Sit 
down,  man ;  do  you  think  the  poor  little  chap  will  hurt 
you  ?  " 

Karl  cast  a  distrustful  glance  sideways  at  my  nursling 
and  spoke  not. 

"I'm  glad  to  see  you,"  pursued  Eugen.  "Why  didn't 
you  come  before  ?  " 

At  that  Karl's  lips  began  to  twitch  with  a  humorous 
smile :  presently  he  too  began  to  laugh,  and  seemed  not 
to  know  how  or  when  to  stop. 

"It  beats  all  I  ever  saw  or  heard  or  dreamed  of,"  said 
he,  at  last.  "  That's  what  brought  you  home  in  such  a 
hurry  every  night.  Let  me  congratulate  you,  Friedel! 
You  make  a  first-rate  nurse ;  when  everything  else  fails  / 
will  give  you  a  character  as  Kindermddchen  ;  clean,  so- 
ber, industrious,  and  not  given  to  running  after  young 
men."  With  which  he  roared  again,  and  Sigmund  sur- 
veyed him  with  a  somewhat  severe,  though  scarcely  a  dis- 
approving expression.  Karl  seated  himself  near  him, 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


141 


and,  though  not  yet  venturing  to  address  him,  cast  vari- 
ous glances  of  blandishment  and  persuasion  upon  him. 

Half  an  hour  passed  thus,  and  a  second  knock  was 
followed  by  the  entrance  of  Frau  Schmidt. 

"Good-evening,  gentlemen,"  she  remarked  in  a  tone 
which  said  unutterable  things — scorn,  contempt,  pity — all 
finely  blended  into  a  withering  sneer,  as  she  cast  her  eyes 
around,  and  a  slight  but  awful  smile  played  about  her 
lips.  "  Half-past  eight,  and  that  blessed  baby  not  in  bed 
yet.  I  knew  how  it  would  be.  And  you  all  smoking, 
too — naturlich!  You  ought  to  know  better,  Herr  Cour- 
voisier — -you  ought,  at  any  rate,"  she  added,  scorn  drop- 
ping into  heart-piercing  reproach.  "Give  him  to  me," 
she  added,  taking  him  from  me,  and  apostrophizing 
him.  "You  poor,  blessed  lamb!  Well  for  you  that  I'm 
here  to  look  after  you,  that  have  had  children  of  my  own, 
and  know  a  little  about  the  sort  of  way  that  you  ought  to 
be  brought  up  in." 

Evident  signs  of  uneasiness  on  Karl's  part,  as  Frau 
Schmidt,  with  the  same  extraordinary  contortion  of  the 
mouth — half  smile,  half  sneer — brought  Sigmund  to  his 
father,  to  say  good-night.  That  process  over,  he  was 
brought  to  me,  and  then,  as  if  it  were  a  matter  which 
"understood  itself,"  to  Karl.  Eugen  and  I,  like  family 
men  as  we  were,  had  gone  through  the  ceremony  with 
willing  grace.  Karl  backed  his  chair  a  little,  looked  much 
alarmed,  shot  a  queer  glance  at  us,  at  the  child,  and  then 
appealingly  up  into  the  woman's  face.  We,  through  our 
smoke,  watched  him. 

"  He  looks  so  very — very — "  he  began. 

"  Come,  come,  mein  Herr,  what  does  that  mean  ? 
Kiss  the  little  angel,  and  be  thankful  you  may.  The  in- 
nocent !  You  ought  to  be  delighted,"  said  she,  standing 
with  grenadier-like  stiffness  beside  him. 

"  He  won't  bite  you,  Karl,"  I  said,  re-assuringly.  "  He's 
quite  harmless." 

Thus  encouraged,  Herr  Linders  stooped  forward  and 
touched  the  cheek  of  the  child  with  his  lips ;  then,  as  if 
surprised,  stroked  it  with  his  finger. 

" Licber  Himmcl!    how   soft!      Like   satin,   or   rose- 


142 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


leaves ! "  he  murmured,  as  the  woman  carried  the  child 
away,  shut  the  door  and  disappeared. 

"  Does  she  tackle  you  in  that  way  every  night  ? "  he 
inquired  next. 

"Every  evening,"  said  Eugen.  "And  I  little  dare 
open  my  lips  before  her.  You  would  notice  how  quiet 
I  kept.  It's  because  I  am  afraid  of  her." 

Frau  Schmidt,  who  had  at  first  objected  so  strongly  to 
the  advent  of  the  child,  was  now  devoted  to  it,  and 
would  have  resented  exceedingly  the  idea  of  allowing 
any  one  but  herself  to  put  it  to  bed,  dress  or  undress  it, 
or  look  after  it  in  general.  This  state  of  things  had 
crept  on  very  gradually :  she  had  never  said  how  fond 
she  was  of  the  child,  but  put  her  kindness  upon  the 
ground  that  as  a  Christian  woman  she  could  not  stand  by 
and  see  it  mis-handled  by  a  couple  of  men,  and  oh !  the 
unutterable  contempt  upon  the  word  "men."  Under  this 
disguise  she  attempted  to  cover  the  fact  that  she  delighted 
to  have  it  with  her,  to  kiss  it,  fondle  it,  admire  it,  and  "  do 
for  it."  We  knew  now  that  no  sooner  had  we  left  the 
house  than  the  child  would  be  brought  down,  and  would 
never  leave  the  care  of  Frau  Schmidt  until  our  return,  or 
until  he  was  in  bed  and  asleep.  She  said  he  was  a  quiet 
child,  and  "did  not  give  so  much  trouble."  Indeed  the 
little  fellow  won  a  friend  in  whoever  saw  him.  He  had 
made  another  conquest  to-night.  Karl  Linders,  after 
puffing  away  for  some  time,  inquired,  with  an  affectation 
of  indifference : 

'  How  old  is  he — der  kleine  Bengel?  " 

'Two — a  little  more." 

4  Handsome  little  fellow ! " 

'  Glad  you  think  so." 

'  Sure  of  it.     But  I  didn't  know,  Courvoisier — so  sure 
as  I  live,  I  knew  nothing  about  it ! " 

"  I  dare  say  not.  Did  I  ever  say  you  did  ?  " 
I  saw  that  Karl  wished  to  ask  another  question ;  one 
which  had  trembled  upon  my  own  lips  many  a  time,  but 
which  I  had  never  asked — which  I  knew  that  I  never 
should  ask.  "The  mother  of  that  child — is  she  alive  or 
dead?  Why  may  we  never  hear  one  word  of  her? 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  I43 

Why  this  silence,  as  of  the  grave  ?  Was  she  your  wife  ? 
Did  you  love  her?  Did  she  love  you  ?" 

Questions  which  could  not  fail  to  come  to  me,  and 
about  which  my  thoughts  would  hang  for  hours.  I  could 
imagine  a  woman  being  very  deeply  in  love  with  Cour- 
voisier.  Whether  he  would  love  very  deeply  himself, 
whether  love  would  form  a  mainspring  of  his  life  and 
actions,  or  whether  it  took  only  a  secondary  place — I 
speak  of  the  love  of  woman — I  could  not  guess.  I  could 
decide  upon  many  points  of  his  character.  He  was  a 
good  friend,  a  high-minded  and  a  pure-minded  man; 
his  every-day  life,  the  turn  of  his  thoughts  and  conversa- 
tion, showed  me  that  as  plainly  as  any  great  adventure 
could  have  done.  That  he  was  an  ardent  musician,  an 
artist  in  the  truest  and  deepest  sense,  of  a  Quixotically 
generous  and  unselfish  nature — all  this  I  had  already 
proved.  That  he  loved  his  child  with  a  love  not  short 
of  passion  was  patent  to  me  every  day.  But  upon  the 
past,  silence  so  utter  as  I  never  before  met  with.  Not  a 
hint;  not  an  allusion;  not  one  syllable. 

Little  Sigmund  was  not  yet  two  and  a  half.  The  story 
upon  which  his  father  maintained  so  deep  a  silence  was 
not,  could  not,  be  a  very  old  one.  His  behavior  gave  me 
no  clew  as  to  whether  it  had  been  a  joyful  or  a  sorrowful 
one.  Mere  silence  could  tell  me  nothing.  Some  men 
are  silent  about  their  griefs;  some  about  their  joys.  I 
knew  not  in  which  direction  his  disposition  lay. 

I  saw  Karl  look  at  him  that  evening  once  or  twice, 
and  I  trembled  lest  the  blundering,  good-natured  fellow 
should  make  the  mistake  of  asking  some  question.  But 
he  did  not;  I  need  not  have  feared.  People  were  not 
in  the  habit  of  putting  obtrusive  questions  to  Eugen 
Courvoisier.  The  danger  was  somehow  quietly  tided 
over,  the  delicate  ground  avoided. 

The  conversation  wandered  quietly  off  to  common- 
place topics — the  state  of  the  orchestra;  tales  of  its 
doings;  the  tempers  of  our  different  conductors — Mal- 
perg  of  the  opera;  Woelfl  of  the  ordinary  concerts, 
which  took  place  two  or  three  times  a  week,  when  we 
fiddled  and  the  public  ate,  drank,  and  listened;  lastly, 
Von  Francius,  koniglichcr  Musikdircktor. 


I44  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

Karl  Linders  gave  his  opinion  freely  upon  the  men  in 
authority.  He  had  nothing  to  do  with  them,  nothing  to 
hope  or  fear  from  them ;  he  filled  a  quiet  place  amongst 
the  violoncellists,  and  had  attained  his  twenty-eighth  year 
without  displaying  any  violent  talent  or  tendency  to  dis- 
tinguish himself,  otherwise  than  by  getting  as  much  mirth 
out  of  life  as  possible  and  living  in  a  perpetual  state 
of  "  carlesse  contente." 

He  desired  to  know  what  Courvoisier  thought  of  Von 
Francius;  for  curiosity — the  fault  of  those  idle  persons 
who  afterwards  develop  into  busy-bodies — was  already 
beginning  to  leave  its  traces  on  Herr  Linders.  It  was 
less  known  than  guessed  that  the  state  of  things  between 
Courvoisier  and  Von  Francius  was  less  peace  than  armed 
neutrality.  The  intense  politeness  of  Von  Francius  to 
his  first  violinist,  and  the  punctilious  ceremoniousness 
of  the  latter  towards  his  chief,  were  topics  of  speculation 
and  amusement  to  the  whole  orchestra. 

"  I  think  Von  Francius  would  be  a  fiend  if  he  could," 
said  Karl,  comfortably.  "  I  wouldn't  stand  it  if  he  spoke 
to  me  as  he  speaks  to  some  people." 

"  Oh,  they  like  it ! "  said  Courvoisier ;  and  Karl  stared. 
"Girls  don't  object  to  a  little  bullying;  anything  rather 
than  be  left  quite  alone,"  Courvoisier  went  on,  tranquilly. 

"  Girls ! "  ejaculated  Karl. 

"You  mean  the  young  ladies  in  the  chorus,  don't  you  ?" 
asked  Courvoisier,  unmovedly.  "He  does  bully  them,  I 
don't  deny;  but  they  come  back  again." 

"  Oh,  I  see  ! "  said  Karl,  accepting  the  rebuff. 

He  had  not  referred  to  the  young  ladies  of  the  chorus. 

"Have  you  heard  Von  Francius  play  ?"  he  began  next. 

"  Naturlich  /  " 

"  What  do  you  think  of  it  ?  " 

"  I  think  it  is  superb ! "  said  Courvoisier. 

Baffled  again,  Karl  was  silent. 

"The  power  and  the  daring  of  it  are  grand,"  went  on 
Eugen,  heartily.  "I  could  listen  to  him  for  hours.  To 
see  him  seat  himself  before  the  piano,  as  if  he  were  sitting 
down  to  read  a  newspaper,  and  do  what  he  does,  without 
moving  a  muscle,  is  simply  superb — there's  no  other  word. 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


145 


Other  men  may  play  the  piano ;  he  takes  the  key-board 
and  plays  with  it,  and  it  says  what  he  likes." 

I  looked  at  him,  and  was  satisfied.  He  found  the 
same  want  in  Von  Francius's  "superb"  manipulation  that 
I  did — the  glitter  of  a  diamond,  not  the  glow  of  a  fire. 

Karl  had  not  the  subtlety  to  retort,  "Ay,  but  does  it 
say  what  we  like  ?"  He  subsided  again,  merely  giving  a 
meek  assent  to  the  proposition,  and  saying,  suggestively : 

"  He's  not  liked,  though  he  is  such  a  popular  fellow." 

"The  public  is  often  a  great  fool." 

"Well,  but  you  can't  expect  it  to  kiss  the  hand  that 
slaps  it  in  the  face,  as  Von  Francius  does,"  said  Karl, 
driven  to  metaphor,  probably  for  the  first  time  in  his  life, 
and  seeming  astonished  at  having  discovered  a  hitherto 
unknown  mental  property  pertaining  to  himself. 

Courvoisier  laughed. 

"  I'm  certain  of  one  thing :  Von  Francius  will  go  on 
slapping  the  public's  face.  I  won't  say  how  it  will  end ; 
but  it  would  not  surprise  me  in  the  least  to  see  the  public 
at  his  feet,  as  it  is  now  at  those  of — " 

"Humph  !"  said  Karl,  reflectively. 

He  did  not  stay  much  longer,  but  having  finished  his 
cigar,  rose.  He  seemed  to  feel  very  apologetic,  and  out 
of  the  fullness  of  his  heart  his  mouth  spake : 

"  I  really  wouldn't  have  intruded  if  I  had  known — " 

"  Known  what  ? "  inquired  Eugen,  with  well-assumed 
surprise. 

"I  thought  you  were  just  by  yourselves,  you  know, 
and—" 

"  So  we  are ;  but  we  can  do  with  other  society.  Friedel 
here  gets  very  tedious  sometimes — in  fact,  langweilig. 
Come  again,  nicht  wahr!" 

"  If  I  shan't  be  in  your  way,"  said  Karl,  looking  round 
the  room  with  somewhat  wistful  eyes. 

We  assured  him  to  the  contrary,  and  he  promised,  with 
unnecessary  emphasis,  to  come  again. 

"  He  will  return ;  I  know  he  will ! "  sang  Eugen  after  he 
had  gone. 

The  next  time  that  Herr  Linders  arrived,  which  was 
ere  many  days  had  passed,  he  looked  excited  and  im- 


I46  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

portant;  and  after  the  first  greetings  were  over,  he  undid  a 
great  number  of  papers  which  wrapped  and  infolded  a 
parcel  of  considerable  dimensions,  and  displayed  to  our 
enraptured  view  a  white  woolly  animal  of  stupendous 
dimensions,  fastened  upon  a  green  stand,  which  stand, 
when  pressed,  caused  the  creature  to  give  forth  a  howl 
like  unto  no  lowing  of  oxen  nor  bleating  of  sheep  ever 
heard  on  earth.  This  inviting-looking  creature  he  held 
forth  towards  Sigmund,  who  stared  at  it. 

"  Perhaps  he's  got  one  already  ?"  said  Karl,  seeing  that 
the  child  did  not  display  any  violent  enthusiasm  about 
the  treasure. 

"  Oh  no !  "  said  Eugen,  promptly. 

"Perhaps  he  doesn't  know  what  it  is,"  I  suggested, 
rather  unkindly,  scarcely  able  to  keep  my  countenance  at 
the  idea  of  that  baby  playing  with  such  a  toy. 

"  Perhaps  not,"  said  Karl,  more  cheerfully,  kneeling 
down  by  my  side — Sigmund  sat  on  my  knee — and  squeez- 
ing the  stand,  so  that  the  woolly  animal  howled.  "  Sick! 
Sigmund !  Look  at  the  pretty  lamb !  " 

"  Oh,  come,  Karl !  Are  you  a  lamb  ?  Call  it  an  eagle 
at  once,"  said  I,  skeptically. 

"  It  is  a  lamb,  isn't  it  ?  "  said  he,  turning  it  over.  "  They 
called  it  a  lamb  at  the  shop." 

"A  very  queer  lamb  :  not  a  German  breed,  anyhow." 

"  Now  I  think  of  it,  my  little  sister  has  one,  but  she 
calls  it  a  rabbit,  I  believe." 

"Very  likely.  You  might  call  that  anything,  and  no 
one  could  contradict  you." 

"Well,  dcr  Kleine  doesn't  know  the  difference:  it's  a 
toy"  said  Karl,  desperately. 

"  Not  a  toy  that  seems  to  take  his  fancy  much,"  said  I, 
as  Sigmund,  with  evident  signs  of  displeasure,  turned 
away  from  the  animal  on  the  green  stand,  and  refused  to 
look  at  it.  Karl  looked  despondent. 

"  He  doesn't  like  the  look  of  it,"  said  he,  plaintively. 

"  I  thought  I  was  sure  to  be  right  in  this.  My  little 
sister"  (Karl's  little  sister  had  certainly  never  been  so 
often  quoted  by  her  brother  before)  "plays  for  hours  with 
that  thing  that  she  calls  a  rabbit." 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


147 


Eugen  had  come  to  the  rescue,  and  grasped  the  woolly 
animal  which  Karl  had  contemptuously  thrown  aside. 
After  convincing  himself  by  near  examination  as  to  which 
was  intended  for  head,  and  which  for  tail,  he  presented  it 
to  his  son,  remarking  that  it  was  "a  pretty  toy." 

"I'll  pray  for  you  after  that,  Eugen — often  and  ear- 
nestly," said  I. 

Sigmund  looked  appealingly  at  him,  but  seeing  that  his 
father  appeared  able  to  endure  the  presence  of  the  beast, 
and  seemed  to  wish  him  to  do  the  same,  from  some  dark 
and  inscrutable  reason  not  to  be  grasped  by  so  young  a 
mind — for  he  was  modest  as  to  his  own  intelligence — he 
put  out  his  small  arm,  received  the  creature  into  it,  and 
embracing  it  round  the  body,  held  it  to  his  side,  and 
looked  at  Eugen  with  a  pathetic  expression. 

"Pretty  plaything,  nicht  wahr?"  said  Eugen,  encour- 
agingly. 

Sigmund  nodded,  silently.  The  animal  emitted  a  howl; 
the  child  winced,  but  looked  resigned.  Eugen  rose  and 
stood  at  some  little  distance,  looking  on.  Sigmund  con- 
tinued to  embrace  the  animal  with  the  same  resigned  ex- 
pression, until  Karl,  stooping,  took  it  away. 

"  You  mustn't  make  him,  just  because  I  brought  it," 
said  he.  "  Better  luck  next  time.  I  see  he's  not  a  com- 
mon child.  I  must  try  to  think  of  something  else." 

We  commanded  our  countenances  with  difficulty,  but 
preserved  them.  Sigmund's  feelings  had  been  severely 
wounded.  For  many  days  he  eyed  Karl  with  a  strange, 
cold  glance,  which  the  latter  used  every  art  in  his  power 
to  change,  and  at  last  succeeded.  Woolly  lambs  became 
a  forbidden  subject.  Nothing  annoyed  Karl  more  than 
for  us  to  suggest,  if  Sigmund  happened  to  be  a  little  cross 
or  mournful,  "Suppose  you  just  go  home,  Karl,  and  fetch 
that '  lamb-rabbit-lion.'  I'm  sure  he  would  like  it."  From 
that  time  the  child  had  another  worshiper,  and  we  a  con- 
stant visitor  in  Karl  Linders. 

We  sat  together  one  evening — Eugen  and  I,  after  Sig- 
mund had  been  in  bed  a  long  time,  after  the  opera  was 
over — chatting,  as  we  often  did,  or  as  often  remained 
silent.  He  had  been  reading,  and  the  book  from  which 


148 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


he  read  was  a  volume  of  English  poetry.  At  last,  laying 
the  book  aside,  he  said: 

"The  first  night  we  met,  you  fainted  away  from  exhaust- 
ion and  long  fasting.  You  said  you  would  tell  me  why 
you  had  allowed  yourself  to  do  so,  but  you  have  never 
kept  your  word." 

"  I  didn't  care  to  eat.  People  eat  to  live — except  those 
who  live  to  eat,  and  I  was  not  very  anxious  to  live,  I 
didn't  care  for  my  life,  in  fact,  I  wished  I  was  dead." 

"  Why  ?     An  unlucky  love  ?  " 

"/,  bewahre  /  I  never  knew  what  it  was  to  be  in  love 
in  my  life,"  said  I,  with  perfect  truth. 

"  Is  that  true,  Friedel  ?  "  he  asked,  apparently  surprised. 

"As  true  as  possible.  I  think  a  timely  love  affair,  how- 
ever unlucky,  would  have  roused  me  and  brought  me  to 
my  senses  again." 

"  General  melancholy  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  was  alone  in  the  world.  I  had  been  reading, 
reading,  reading :  my  brain  was  one  dark  and  misty  mud- 
dle of  Kant,  Schopenhauer,  Von  Hartmann,  and  a  few 
others.  I  read  them  one  after  another,  as  quickly  as 
possible:  the  mixture  had  the  same  effect  upon  my  mind 
as  the  indiscriminate  contents  of  a  toffy-shop  would  have 
upon  Sigmund's  stomach — it  made  it  sick.  In  my  crude, 
ungainly,  unfinished  fashion  I  turned  over  my  information, 
laying  down  big  generalizations  upon  a  foundation  of  ex- 
perience of  the  smallest  possible  dimensions,  and  all  upon 
one  side." 

He  nodded.     "  Ei  !  I  know  it." 

"  And  after  considering  the  state  of  the  human  race — 
that  is  to  say  the  half  dozen  people  I  knew,  and  the 
miseries  of  the  human  lot  as  set  forth  in  the  books  I  had 
read,  and  having  proved  to  myself,  all  up  in  that  little 
room,  you  know" — I  pointed  to  my  bedroom — "that 
there  neither  was  nor  could  be  heaven  or  hell  or  any 
future  state,  and  having  decided,  also  from  that  room, 
that  there  was  no  place  for  me  in  the  world,  and  that  I 
was  very  likely  actually  filling  the  place  of  some  other 
man,  poorer  than  I  was,  and  able  to  think  life  a  good 
thing"  (Eugen  was  smiling  to  himself  in  great  amuse- 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


149 


ment),  "  I  came  to  the  conclusion  that  the  best  thing  I 
could  do  was  to  leave  the  world." 

"  Were  you  going  to  starve  yourself  to  death  ?  That 
is  rather  a  tedious  process,  nichtwahr?  " 

11  Oh  no  !  I  had  not  decided  upon  any  means  of  effac- 
ing myself;  and  it  was  really  your  arrival  which  brought 
on  that  fainting  fit,  for  if  you  hadn't  turned  up  when  you 
did  I  should  probably  have  thought  of  my  interior  some 
time  before  seven  o'clock.  But  you  came.  Eugen,  I 
wonder  what  sent  you  up  to  my  room  just  at  that  very 
time,  on  that  very  day !  " 

"  Von  Francius,"  said  Eugen,  tranquilly.  "  I  had  seen 
him,  and  he  was  very  busy  and  referred  me  to  you — that's 
all." 

"Well — let  us  call  it  Von  Francius." 

"But  what's  the  end  of  it?     Is  that  the  whole  story  ?  " 

"I  thought  I  might  as  well  help  you  a  bit,"  said  I, 
rather  awkwardly.  "  You  were  not  like  other  people,  you 
see — it  was  the  child,  I  think.  I  was  as  much  amazed  as 
Karl,  if  I  didn't  show  it  so  much,  and  after  that — " 

"  After  that  ?  " 

"Well.  There  was  the  child,  you  see,  and  things 
seemed  quite  different  somehow.  I've  been  very  com- 
fortable" (this  was  my  way  of  putting  it)  "  ever  since,  and 
I  am  curious  to  see  what  the  boy  will  be  like  in  a  few 
years.  Shall  you  make  him  into  a  musician  too  ?  " 

Courvoisier's  brow  clouded  a  little. 

"  I  don't  know,"  was  all  he  said.  Later,  I  learned  the 
reason  of  that  "don't  know." 

"So  it  was  no  love  affair,"  said  Eugen  again.  "Then 
I  have  been  wrong  all  the  time.  I  quite  fancied  it  was 
some  girl — " 

"What  could  make  you  think  so?"  I  asked,  with  a 
whole-hearted  laugh.  "  I  tell  you  I  don't  know  what  it  is 
to  be  in  love.  The  other  fellows  are  always  in  love. 
They  are  in  a  constant  state  of  Sckwdrmerei  about  some 
girl  or  other.  It  goes  in  epidemics.  They  have  not 
each  a  separate  passion.  The  whole  lot  of  them  will  go 
mad  about  one  young  woman.  I  can't  understand  it.  I 
wish  I  could,  for  they  seem  to  enjoy  it  so  much." 


je0  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

"You  heathen!"  said  he,  but  not  in  a  very  bantering 
tone. 

"Why,  Eugen,  do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  are  so  very 
susceptible?  Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon,"  I  added,  hastily, 
shocked  and  confused  to  find  that  I  had  been  so  nearly 
overstepping  the  boundary  which  I  had  always  marked 
out  for  myself.  And  I  stopped  abruptly. 

"  That's  like  you,  Friedhelm ! "  said  he,  in  a  tone  which 
was  in  some  way  different  from  his  usual  one.  "  I  never 
knew  such  a  ridiculous,  chivalrous,  punctilious  fellow  as 
you  are.  Tell  me  something — did  you  never  speculate 
about  me?" 

"  Never  impertinently,  I  assure  you,  Eugen,"  said  I, 
earnestly. 

He  laughed. 

"  You  impertinent!  That  is  amusing,  I  must  say.  But 
surely  you  have  given  me  a  thought  now  and  then,  have 
wondered  whether  I  had  a  history,  or  sprang  out  of  noth- 
ing?" 

"  Certainly,  and  wondered  what  your  story  was;  but  I 
do  not  need  to  know  it  to — " 

"  I  understand.  Well,  but  it  is  rather  difficult  to  say 
this  to  such  an  unsympathetic  person;  you  won't  under- 
stand it.  I  have  been  in  love,  Friedel." 

"  So  I  can  suppose." 

I  waited  for  the  corollary,  "and  been  loved  in  return," 
but  it  did  not  come.  He  said,  "And  received  as  much  re- 
gard in  return  as  I  deserved — perhaps  more." 

As  I  could  not  cordially  assent  to  this  proposition,  I  re- 
mained silent. 

After  a  pause  he  went  on:  "I  am  eight -and -twenty, 
and  have  lived  my  life.  The  story  won't  bear  raking  up 
now — perhaps  never.  For  a  long  time  I  went  on  my  own 
way,  and  was  satisfied  with  it — blindly,  inanely,  densely 
satisfied  with  it;  then  all  at  once  I  was  brought  to  rea- 
son— "  He  laughed,  not  a  very  pleasant  laugh. 
"  Brought  to  reason,"  he  resumed,  "  but  how  ?  By  waking 
one  morning  to  find  myself  a  spoiled  man,  and  spoiled  by 
myself,  too." 

A  pause,  while  I  turned  this  information  over  in  my 
mind,  and  then  said,  composedly: 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  !5! 

"I  don't  quite  believe  in  your  being  a  spoiled  man. 
Granted  that  you  have  made  some  fiasco — even  a  very 
bad  one — what  is  to  prevent  your  making  a  life  again  ?  " 

"Ha,  ha!"  said  he,  ungenially.  "Things  not  dreamed 
of,  Friedel,  by  your  straightforward  philosophy.  One 
night  I  was,  take  it  all  in  all,  straight  with  the  world  and 
my  destiny;  the  next  night  I  was  an  outcast,  and  justly 
so.  I  don't  complain.  I  have  no  right  to  complain." 

Again  he  laughed. 

"  I  once  knew  some  one,"  said  I,  "  who  used  to  say 
that  many  a  good  man  and  many  a  great  man  was  lost  to 
the  world  simply  because  nothing  interrupted  the  course 
of  his  prosperity." 

"  Don't  suppose  that  I  am  an  embryo  hero  of  any  de- 
scription," said  he,  bitterly.  "  I  am  merely,  as  I  said,  a 
spoiled  man,  brought  to  his  senses  and  with  life  before 
him  to  go  through  as  best  he  may,  and  the  knowledge 
that  his  own  fault  has  brought  him  to  what  he  is." 

"  But  look  here !  If  it  is  merely  a  question  of  name  or 
money,"  I  began. 

"It  is  not  merely  that;  but  suppose  it  were,  what 
then?" 

"  It  lies  with  yourself.  You  may  make  a  name  either 
as  a  composer  or  performer — your  head  or  your  fingers 
will  secure  you  money  and  fame." 

"  None  the  less  should  I  be,  as  I  said,  a  spoiled  man," 
he  said,  quietly.  "  I  should  be  ashamed  to  come  forward. 
It  was  I  myself  who  sent  myself  and  my  prospects  Caput  ;* 
and  for  that  sort  obscurity  is  the  best  taste  and  the  right 
sphere." 

"But  there's  the  boy,"  I  suggested.  "Let  him  have 
the  advantage." 

"Don't,  don't!"  he  said,  suddenly  and  wincing  visibly, 
as  if  I  had  touched  a  raw  spot.  "  No;  my  one  hope  for 
him  is  that  he  may  never  be  known  as  my  son." 

"But— but— " 

"Poor  little  beggar!     I  wonder  what  will  become  of 

*  Caput — a  German  slang  expression,  with  the  general  significance  of  the  En- 
glish "  gone  to  smash,"  but  also  a  hundred  other  and  wider  meanings,  impossible 
to  render  in  brief. 


I52  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

him,"  he  uttered,  after  a  pause,  during  which  I  did  not 
speak  again. 

Eugen  puffed  fitfully  at  his  cigar,  and  at  last  knocking 
the  ash  from  it  and  avoiding  my  eyes,  he  said  in  a  low 
voice : 

"I  suppose  sometime  I  must  leave  the  boy." 

"Leave  him!"  I  echoed,  intelligently. 

"  When  he  grows  a  little  older — before  he  is  old  enough 
to  feel  it  very  much,  though,  I  must  part  from  him.  It 
will  be  better." 

Another  pause.  No  sign  of  emotion,  no  quiver  of  the 
lips,  no  groan,  though  the  heart  might  be  a-faint.  I  sat 
speechless. 

"  I  have  not  come  to  the  conclusion  lately.  I've  always 
known  it,"  he  went  on,  and  spoke  slowly.  "  I  have  known 
it — and  have  thought  about  it — so  as  to  get  accustomed  to 
it — see?" 

I  nodded. 

"At  that  time — as  you  seem  to  have  a  fancy  for  the 
child — will  you  give  an  eye  to  him — sometimes,  Friedel — 
that  is,  if  you  care  enough  for  me — " 

For  a  moment  I  did  not  speak.     Then  I  said : 

"  You  are  quite  sure  the  parting  must  take  place  ?  " 

He  assented. 

"When  it  does,  will  you  give  him  to  me — to  my  charge 
altogether?" 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  If  he  must  lose  one  father,  let  me  grow  as  like  another 
to  him  as  I  can." 

"  Friedhelm— " 

"On  no  other  condition,"  said  I.  "I  will  not  'have  an 
eye '  to  him  occasionally.  I  will  not  let  him  go  out  alone 
amongst  strangers,  and  give  a  look  in  upon  him  now  and 
then." 

Eugen  had  covered  his  face  with  his  hands,  but  spoke 
not. 

"  I  will  have  him  with  me  altogether,  or  not  at  all,"  I 
finished,  with  a  kind  of  jerk. 

"Impossible!  "  said  he,  looking  up  with  a  pale  face,  and 
eyes  full  of  anguish — the  more  intense  in  that  he  uttered 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  153 

not  a  word  of  it.  "  Impossible!  You  are  no  relation — he 
has  not  a  claim — there  is  not  a  reason — not  the  wildest 
reason  for  such  a — " 

"Yes,  there  is;  there  is  the  reason  that  I  won't  have  it 
otherwise,"  said  I,  doggedly. 

"It  is  fantastic,  like  your  insane  self,"  he  said,  with  a 
forced  smile,  which  cut  me,  somehow,  more  than  if  he  had 
groaned. 

"  Fantastic!  I  don't  know  what  you  mean.  What  good 
would  it  be  to  me  to  see  him  with  strangers  ?  I  should 
only  make  myself  miserable  with  wishing  to  have  him.  I 
don't  know  what  you  mean  by  fantastic." 

He  drew  a  long  breath.  "So  be  it,  then,"  said  he,  at 
last.  "And  he  need  know  nothing  about  his  father.  I 
may  even  see  him  from  time  to  time  without  his  knowing 
— see  him  growing  into  a  man  like  you,  Friedel;  it  would 
be  worth  the  separation,  even  if  one  had  not  to  make  a 
merit  of  necessity;  yes,  well  worth  it." 

"Like  me?  JVte,  mein  Lieber  ;  he  shall  be  something 
rather  better  than  I  am,  let  us  hope,"  said  I ;  "  but  there 
is  time  enough  to  talk  about  it." 

"  Oh  yes!  In  a  year  or  two  from  now,"  said  he,  almost 
inaudibly.  "The  worst  of  it  is  that  in  a  case  like  this,  the 
years  go  so  fast,  so  cursedly  fast." 

I  could  make  no  answer  to  this,  and  he  added,  "  Give 
me  thy  hand  upon  it,  Friedel." 

I  held  out  my  hand.  We  had  risen,  and  stood  looking 
steadfastly  into  each  other's  eyes. 

"  I  wish  I  were — what  I  might  have  been — to  pay  you 
for  this,"  he  said,  hesitatingly,  wringing  my  hand  and  lay- 
ing his  left  for  a  moment  on  my  shoulder;  then,  without 
another  word,  went  into  his  room,  shutting  the  door  after 
him. 

I  remained  still — sadder,  gladder  than  I  had  ever  been 
before.  Never  had  I  so  intensely  felt  the  deep,  eternal 
sorrow  of  life — that  sorrow  which  can  be  avoided  by  none 
who  rightly  live;  yet  never  had  life  towered  before  me  so 
rich  and  so  well  worth  living  out,  so  capable  of  high  exal- 
tation, pure  purpose^  full  satisfaction,  and  sufficient  reward. 
My  quarrel  with  existence  was  made  up. 


CHAPTER  III. 

"The  merely  great  are,  all  in  all, 
No  more  than  what  the  merely  small 
Esteem  them.     Man's  opinion 
Neither  conferred  nor  can  remove 
This  man's  dominion." 

THREE  years  passed — an  even  way.  In  three  years 
there  happened  little  of  importance — little,  that  is,  of 
open  importance — to  either  of  us.  I  read  that  sentence 
again,  and  cannot  help  smiling:  "to  either  of  us."  It 
shows  the  progress  that  our  friendship  had  made.  Yes, 
it  had  grown  every  day. 

I  had  no  past,  painful  or  otherwise,  which  I  could  even 
wish  to  conceal ;  I  had  no  thought  that  I  desired  hidden 
from  the  man  who  had  become  my  other  self.  What 
there  was  of  good  in  me,  what  of  evil,  he  saw.  It  was 
laid  open  to  him,  and  he  appeared  to  consider  that  the 
good  predominated  over  the  bad;  for,  from  that  first  day 
of  meeting,  our  intimacy  went  on  steadily  in  one  direction 
— increasing,  deepening.  He  was  six  years  older  than  I 
was.  At  the  end  of  this  time  of  which  I  speak  he  was 
one-and-thirty,  I  five-and-twenty ;  but  we  met  on  equal 
ground — not  that  I  had  anything  approaching  his  capaci- 
ties in  any  way.  I  do  not  think  that  had  anything  to  do 
with  it.  Our  happiness  did  not  depend  on  mental  su- 
premacy. I  loved  him — because  I  could  not  help  it;  he 
me,  because — upon  my  word,  I  can  think  of  no  good  rea- 
son— probably  because  he  did. 

And  yet  we  were  as  unlike  as  possible.  He  had  habits 
of  reckless  extravagance,  or  what  seemed  to  me  reckless 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


155 


extravagance,  and  a  lordly  manner  (when  he  forgot  him- 
self) of  speaking  of  things,  which  absolutely  appalled  my 
economical  burgher-soul.  I  had  certain  habits,  too,  the 
outcomes  of  my  training,  and  my  sparing,  middle-class  way 
of  living,  which  I  saw  puzzled  him  very  much.  To  cite 
only  one  insignificant  incident.  We  were  both  great  read- 
ers, and,  despite  our  sometimes  arduous  work,  contrived 
to  get  through  a  good  amount  of  books  in  the  year.  One 
evening  he  came  home  with  a  brand-new  novel,  in  three 
volumes,  in  his  hands. 

"  Here,  Friedel ;  here  is  some  mental  dissipation  for  to- 
night. Drop  that  Schopenhauer,  and  study  Heyse. 
Here  is  Die  Kinder  der  Welt;  it  will  suit  our  case  exact- 
ly, for  it  is  what  we  are  ourselves." 

"  How  clean  it  looks ! "  I  observed,  innocently. 

"  So  it  ought,  seeing  that  I  have  just  paid  for  it." 

"  Paid  for  it ! "  I  almost  shouted.  "  Paid  for  it !  You 
don't  mean  that  you  have  bought  the  book !  " 

"  Calm  thy  troubled  spirit !  You  don't  surely  mean  that 
you  thought  me  capable  of  stealing  the  book  ?" 

"You  are  hopeless.  You  have  paid  at  least  eighteen 
marks  for  it." 

"That's  the  figure  to  a  pfennig." 

"Well,"  said  I,  with  conscious  superiority,  "you  might 
have  had  the  whole  three  volumes  from  the  library  for  five 
or  six  groschen." 

"  I  know.  But  their  copy  looked  so  disgustingly  greasy 
I  couldn't  have  touched  it ;  so  I  ordered  a  new  one." 

"Very  well.  Your  accounts  will  look  well  when  you 
come  to  balance  and  take  stock,"  I  retorted. 

"  What  a  fuss  about  a  miserable  eighteen  marks  ! "  said 
he,  stretching  himself  out,  and  opening  a  volume.  "  Come, 
Sig,  learn  how  the  children  of  the  world  are  wiser  in  their 
generation  than  the  children  of  light,  and  leave  that  low 
person  to  prematurely  age  himself  by  beginning  to  bal- 
ance his  accounts  before  they  are  ripe  for  it." 

"  I  don't  know  whether  you  are  aware  that  you  are 
talking  the  wildest  and  most  utter  rubbish  that  was  ever 
conceived,"  said  I,  nettled.  "There  is  simply  no  sense  in 
it.  Given  an  income  of — " 


I56  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

"Abcr,  ich  bitte  Dich  .'"  he  implored,  though  laughing; 
and  I  was  silent. 

But  his  three  volumes  of  Die  Kinder  der  Welt  furnished 
me  with  many  an  opportunity  to  "  point  a  moral  or  adorn 
a  tale,"  and  I  believe  really  warned  him  off  one  or  two 
other  similar  extravagances.  The  idea  of  men  in  our  po- 
sition recklessly  ordering  three-volume  novels  because  the 
circulating  library  copy  happened  to  be  greasy,  was  one 
I  could  not  get  over  for  a  long  time. 

We  still  inhabited  the  same  rooms  at  No.  45,  in  the 
Wehrhahn.  We  had  outstayed  many  other  tenants ;  men 
had  come  and  gone,  both  from  our  house  and  from  those 
rooms  over  the  way  whose  windows  faced  ours.  We  pass- 
ed our  time  in  much  the  same  way — hard  work  at  our 
profession,  and,  with  Eugen  at  least,  hard  work  out  of  it ; 
the  education  of  his  boy,  whom  he  made  his  constant 
companion  in  every  leisure  moment,  and  taught,  with  a 
wisdom  that  I  could  hardly  believe — it  seemed  so  like  in- 
spiration— composition,  translation,  or  writing  of  his  own 
— incessant  employment  of  some  kind.  He  never  seemed 
able  to  pass  an  idle  moment ;  and  yet  there  were  times 
when,  it  seemed  to  me,  his  work  did  not  satisfy  him,  but 
rather  seemed  to  disgust  him. 

Once  when  I  asked  him  if  it  were  so,  he  laid  down  his 
pen  and  said,  "Yes." 

"  Then  why  do  you  do  it  ?  " 

"  Because — for  no  reason  that  I  know ;  but  because  I 
am  an  unreasonable  fool." 

"An  unreasonable  fool  to  work  hard?" 

"  No  ;  but  to  go  on  as  if  hard  work  now  can  ever  undo 
what  years  of  idleness  have  done." 

"  Do  you  believe  in  work  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  I  believe  it  is  the  very  highest  and  holiest  thing  there 
is,  and  the  grandest  purifier  and  cleanser  in  the  world. 
But  it  is  not  a  panacea  against  every  ill.  I  believe  that 
idleness  is  sometimes  as  strong  as  work,  and  stronger. 
You  may  do  that  in  a  few  years  of  idleness  which  a  life- 
time of  afterwork  won't  cover,  mend,  or  improve.  You 
may  make  holes  in  your  coat  from  sheer  laziness,  and  then 
find  that  no  amount  of  stitching  will  patch  them  up 
again." 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  157 

I  seldom  answered  these  mystic  monologues.  Love 
gives  a  wonderful  sharpness  even  to  dull  wits;  it  had 
sharpened  mine  so  that  I  often  felt  he  indulged  in  those 
speeches  out  of  sheer  desire  to  work  off  some  grief  or  bit- 
terness from  his  heart,  but  that  a  question  might,  however 
innocent,  overshoot  the  mark,  and  touch  a  sore  spot — the 
thing  I  most  dreaded.  And  I  did  not  feel  it  essential  to 
my  regard  for  him  to  know  every  item  of  his  past. 

In  such  cases,  however,  when  there  is  something  behind 
— when  one  knows  it,  only  does  not  know  what  it  is  (and 
Eugen  had  never  tried  to  conceal  from  me  that  something 
had  happened  to  him  which  he  did  not  care  to  tell) — then, 
even  though  one  accept  the  fact,  as  I  accepted  it,  without 
dispute  or  resentment,  one  yet  involuntarily  builds  theo- 
ries, has  ideas,  or  rather  the  ideas  shape  themselves  about 
the  object  of  interest,  and  take  their  coloring  from  him, 
one  cannot  refrain  from  conjectures,  surmises.  Mine  were 
necessarily  of  the  most  vague  and  shadowy  description ; 
more  negative  than  active,  less  theories  as  to  what  he  had 
been  or  done  than  inferences  from  what  he  let  fall  in  talk 
or  conduct  as  to  what  he  had  not  been  or  done. 

In  our  three  years'  acquaintance,  it  is  true,  there  had 
not  been  much  opportunity  for  any  striking  display  on  his 
part  of  good  or  bad  qualities ;  but  certainly  ample  oppor- 
tunity of  testing  whether  he  were,  taken  all  in  all,  superi- 
or, even  with,  or  inferior  to  the  average  man  of  our  av- 
erage acquaintance.  And,  briefly  speaking,  to  me  he  had 
become  a  standing  model  of  a  superior  man. 

I  had  by  this  time  learned  to  know  that  when  there 
were  many  ways  of  looking  at  a  question,  that  one,  if  there 
were  such  an  one,  which  was  less  earthily  practical,  more 
ideal  and  less  common  than  the  others,  would  most  inev- 
itably be  the  view  taken  by  Eugen  Courvoisier,  and  ad- 
vocated by  him  with  warmth,  energy,  and  eloquence  to 
the  very  last.  The  point  from  which  he  surveyed  the 
things  and  the  doings  of  life  was,  taken  all  in  all,  a  higher 
one  than  that  of  other  men,  and  was  illumined  with  some- 
thing of  the  purple  splendor  of  that  "light  that  never  was 
on  sea  or  land."  A  less  practical  conduct,  a  more  ideal 
view  of  riuht  and  wroncr — sometimes  a  little  fantastic  even 


IS8  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

— always  imbued  with  something  of  the  knightliness  which 
sat  upon  him  as  a  natural  attribute.  Ritterlich,  Karl  Lin- 
ders  called  him,  half  in  jest,  half  in  earnest :  and  ritterlich 
he  was. 

In  his  outward  demeanor  to  the  world  with  which  he 
came  in  contact,  he  was  courteous  to  men;  to  a  friend  or 
intimate,  as  myself,  an  ever  new  delight  and  joy;  to  all 
people,  truthful  to  fantasy;  and  to  women,  on  the  rare  oc- 
casions on  which  I  ever  saw  him  in  their  company,  he 
was  polite  and  deferential — but  rather  overwhelmingly  so ; 
it  was  a  politeness  which  raised  a  barrier,  and  there  was 
a  glacial  surface  to  the  manner.  I  remarked  this,  and 
speculated  about  it.  He  seemed  to  have  one  manner  to 
every  woman  with  whom  he  had  anything  to  do;  the 
maid-servant  who,  at  her  leisure  or  pleasure,  was  supposed 
to  answer  our  behests  (though  he  would  often  do  a  thing 
himself,  alleging  that  he  preferred  doing  so  to  "seeing 
that  poor  creature's  apron"),  old  Frau  Henschel  who  sold 
the  programmes  at  theJfasse  at  the  concerts,  to  the  young 
ladies  who  presided  behind  a  counter,  to  every  woman  to 
whom  he  spoke  a  chance  word,  up  to  Frau  Sybel,  the 
wife  of  the  great  painter,  who  came  to  negotiate  about 
lessons  for  the  lovely  frdulein,  her  daughter,  who  wished 
to  play  a  different  instrument  from  that  affected  by  every 
one  else.  The  same  inimitable  courtesy,  the  same  un ruf- 
fled, -.unrufflable  quiet  indifference,  and  the  same  utter  un- 
consciousness that  he,  or  his  appearance,  or  behavior,  or 
anything  about  him,  could  possibly  interest  them.  And 
yet  he  was  a  man  eminently  calculated  to  attract  women, 
only  he  never  to  this  day  has  been  got  to  believe  so,  and 
will  often  deprecate  his  poor  power  of  entertaining  ladies. 

I  often  watched  this  little  by-play  of  behavior  from  and 
to  the  fairer  sex  with  silent  amusement,  more  particularly 
when  Eugen  and  I  made  shopping  expeditions  for  Sig- 
mund's  benefit.  We  once  went  to  buy  stockings — winter 
stockings  for  him;  it  was. a  large  miscellaneous  and  small- 
ware  shop,  full  of  young  women  behind  the  counters  and 
ladies  of  all  ages  before  them. 

We  found  ourselves  in  the  awful  position  of  being  the 
only  male  creatures  in  the  place.  Happy  in  my  insignifi- 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  !59 

cance  and  plainness,  I  survived  the  glances  that  were 
thrown  upon  us;  I  did  not  wonder  that  they  fell  upon  my 
companions.  Eugen  consulted  a  little  piece  of  paper  on 
which  Frau  Schmidt  had  written  down  what  we  were  to 
ask  for,  and,  marching  straight  up  to  a  disengaged  shop- 
woman,  requested  to  be  shown  colored  woolen  stockings. 

"For  yourself,  mein  Hcrr?"  she  inquired,  with  a  fas- 
cinating smile. 

••  Xo,  thank  you;  for  my  little  boy,"  says  Eugen,  po- 
litely, glancing  deferentially  round  at  the  piles  of  wool 
and  packets  of  hosen  around. 

"Ah,  so!  For  the  young  gentleman?  J3itte,  mtint 
Hcrrcn,  be  seated."  And  she  gracefully  pushes  chairs 
for  us ;  on  one  of  which  I,  unable  to  resist  so  much  affa- 
bility, sit  down. 

E'ugen  remains  standing;  and  Sigmund,  desirous  of  hav- 
ing a  voice  in  the  matter,  mounts  upon  his  stool,  kneels 
upon  it,  and  leans  his  elbows  on  the  counter. 

The  affable  young  woman  returns,  and  with  a  glance  at 
Eugen  that  speaks  of  worlds  beyond  colored  stockings, 
proceeds  to  untie  a  packet  and  display  her  wares.  He 
turns  them  over.  Clearly  he  does  not  like  them,  and 
does  not  understand  them.  They  are  striped;  some  are 
striped  latitudinally,  others  longitudinally.  Eugen  turns 
tli  em  over,  and  the  young  woman  murmurs  that  they  are 
of  the  best  quality. 

"Are  they?"  says  he,  and  his  eyes  roam  round  the 
shop.  "Well,  Sigmund,  wilt  thou  have  legs  like  a  stork, 
as  these  long  stripes  will  inevitably  make  them,  or  wilt 
thou  have  legs  like  a  zebra's  back?" 

-I  should  like  legs  like  a  little  boy,  please,"  is  Sig- 
mund's  modest  expression  of  a  reasonable  desire. 

Eugen  surveys  them. 

'•  Von  dcr  besten  Qualitat"  repeats  the  young  woman, 
impressively. 

"Have  you  no  blue  ones?"  demands  Eugen.  "All 
blue,  you  know.  He  wears  blue  clothes." 

"Assuredly,  mcin  Hcrr,  but  of  a  much  dearer  descrip- 
tion; real  English,  magnificent." 

She  retires  to  find  them,  and  a  young  lady  who  has 
been  standing  near  us  turns  and  obser. 


!6o  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

"  Excuse  me — you  want  stockings  for  your  little  boy  ?  " 

We  both  assent.  It  is  a  joint  affair,  of  equal  impor- 
tance to  both  of  us. 

"I  wouldn't  have  those,"  says  she,  and  I  remark  her 
face. 

I  have  seen  her  often  before — moreover  I  have  seen  her 
look  very  earnestly  at  Eugen.  I  learned  later  that  her 
name  was  Anna  Sartorius.  Ere  she  can  finish,  the  shop- 
woman,  with  wreathed  smiles  still  lingering  about  her 
face,  returns  and  produces  stockings — fine,  blue  ribbed 
stockings,  such  as  the  children  of  rich  English  parents 
wear.  Their  fineness,  and  the  smooth  quality  of  the  wool, 
and  the  good  shape  appear  to  soothe  Eugen's  feelings. 
He  pushes  away  his  heap  of  striped  ones,  which  look  still 
coarser  and  commoner  now,  observing  hopefully  and 
cheerily : 

"  y<z  wohl !  That  is  more  what  I  mean."  (The  pooi 
dear  fellow  had  meant  nothing,  but  he  kne\v  what  he 
wanted  when  he  saw  it.)  "These look  more  like  thy  legs, 
Sigmund,  nichtwahr?  I'll  take — " 

I  dug  him  violently  in  the  ribs. 

"Hold  on,  Eugen!  How  much  do  they  cost  the  pair, 
Fraulein  ?  " 

"Two  thalers  twenty-five;  the  very  best  quality,"  she 
says,  with  a  ravishing  smile. 

"There!  eight  shillings  a  pair!"  say  I.  "It  is  ridicu- 
lous." 

"Eight  shillings!"  he  repeats,  ruefully.  "That  is  too 
much." 

"They  are  real  English,  mein  fferr"  she  says,  feelingly. 

"But,  um  Gotteswillen .'  don't  we  make  any  like  them 
in  Germany  ?  " 

"Oh,  sir!"  she  says,  reproachfully. 

"  Those  others  are  such  brutes,"  he  remarks,  evidently 
wavering. 

I  am  in  despair.  The  young  woman  is  annoyed  to  find 
that  he  does  not  even  see  the  amiable  looks  she  has  be- 
stowed upon  him,  so  she  sweeps  back  the  heap  of  striped 
stockings  and  announces  that  they  are  only  three  marks 
the  pair — naturally  inferior,  but  you  cannot  have  the  best 
article  for  nothing. 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  161 

Fraulein  Sartorius,  about  to  go,  says  to  Eugen : 

"  Mein  Herr,  ask  for  such  and  such  an  article.  I 
know  they  keep  them,  and  you  will  find  it  what  you 
want." 

Eugen,  much  touched,  and  much  surprised  (as  he  al- 
ways is  and  has  been)  that  any  one  should  take,  an  inter- 
est in  him,  makes  a  bow,  and  a  speech,  and  rushes  off  to 
open  the  door  for  Fraulein  Sartorius,  thanking  her  pro- 
fusely for  her  goodness.  The  young  lady  behind  the 
counter  smiles  bitterly,  and  now  looks  as  if  butter  would 
not  melt  in  her  mouth.  I,  assuming  the  practical,  men- 
tion the  class  of  goods  referred  to  by  Fraulein  Sartorius, 
which  she  unwillingly  brings  forth,  and  we  straightway 
purchase.  The  errand  accomplished,  Eugen  takes  Sig- 
mund  by  the  hand,  makes  a  grand  bow  to  the  young  wom- 
an, and  instructs  his  son  to  take  off  his  hat,  and,  this 
process  being  complete,  we  sally  forth  again,  and  half 
way  home  Eugen  remarks  that  it  was  very  kind  of  that 
young  lady  to  help  us. 

"Very,"  I  assent,  dryly,  and  when  Sigmund  has  con- 
tributed the  artless  remark  that  all  the  ladies  laughed  at 
us  and  looked  at  us,  and  has  been  told  by  his  father  not  to 
be  so  self-conceited,  for  that  no  one  can  possibly  wish  to 
look  at  us,  we  arrive  at  home,  and  the  stockings  are  tried 
on. 

Constantly  I  saw  this  willingness  to  charm  on  the  part 
of  women:  constantly  the  same  utter  ignorance  of  any 
such  thought  on  the  part  of  Eugen,  who  was  continually 
expressing  his  surprise  at  the  kindness  of  people,  and  add- 
ing with  the  gravest  simplicity  that  he  had  always  found 
it  so,  at  which  announcement  Karl  laughed  till  he  had  to 
hold  his  sides. 

And  Sigmund?  Since  the  day  when  Courvoisier  had 
said  to  me,  slowly  and  with  difficulty,  the  words  about 
parting,  he  had  mentioned  the  subject  twice — always  with 
the  same  intention  expressed.  Once  it  was  when  I  had 
been  out  during  the  evening,  and  he  had  not.  I  came 
into  our  sitting-room,  and  found  it  in  darkness.  A  light 
came  from  the  inner  room,  and,  going  towards  it,  I  found 
that  he  had  placed  the  lamp  upon  a  distant  stand,  and 


!62  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

was  sitting  by  the  child's  crib;  his  arms  folded;  his  face 
calm  and  sad.  He  rose  when  he  saw  me,  brought  the 
lamp  into  the  parlor  again,  and  said: 

"Pardon,  Friedel,  that  I  left  you  without  light.  The 
time  of  parting  will  come,  you  know,  and  I  was  taking  a 
look  in  anticipation  of  the  time  when  there  will  be  no  one 
there  to  look  at." 

I  bowed.  There  was  a  slight  smile  upon  his  lips,  but 
I  would  rather  have  heard  a  broken  voice  and  seen  a 
mien  less  serene. 

The  second,  and  only  time,  up  to  now,  and  the  events 
I  am  coming  to,  was  once  when  he  had  been  giving 
Sigmund  a  music-lesson,  as  we  called  it — that  is  to  say 
Eugen  took  his  violin  and  played  a  melody,  but  incor- 
rectly, and  Sigmund  told  him  every  time  a  wrong  note 
was  played,  or  false  time  kept.  Eugen  sat,  giving  a  look 
now  and  then  at  the  boy,  whose  small,  delicate  face  was 
bright  with  intelligence,  whose  dark  eyes  blazed  with  life 
and  fire,  and  whose  every  gesture  betrayed  spirit,  grace, 
and  quick  understanding.  A  child  for  a  father  to  be 
proud  of.  No  meanness  there;  no  littleness  in  the  fine, 
high-bred  features;  everything  that  the  father's  heart 
could  wish,  except  perhaps  some  little  want  of  robustness: 
one  might  have  desired  that  the  limbs  were  less  exquisitely 
graceful  and  delicate — more  stout  and  robust. 

As  Eugen  laid  aside  his  violin,  he  drew  the  child  to- 
wards him  and  asked  (what  I  had  never  heard  him  ask 
before) : 

"What  wilt  thou  be,  Sigmund,  when  thou  art  a  man?" 
'  Jh,  lieber  Vater,  I  will  be  just  like  thee." 
'How  just  like  me  ?" 
'  I  will  do  what  thou  dost." 

'  So !  Thou  wilt  be  a  Musiker  like  me  and  Friedel  ?  " 
'  Ja  wohl/"  said  Sigmund ;  but  something  else  seemed 
to  weigh  upon  his  small  mind.  He  eyed  his  father  with 
a  reflective  look,  then  looked  down  at  his  own  small  hands 
and  slender  limbs  (his  legs  were  cased  in  the  new  stock- 
ings). 

"  How  ?  "  inquired  his  father. 

"  I  should  like  to  be  a  musician,"  said  Sigmund,  who 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


163 


had  a  fine  confidence  in  his  sire,  and  confided  his  every 
thought  to  him. 

"I  don't  know  how  to  say  it,"  he  went  on,  resting  his 
elbows  upon  Eugen's  knee,  and  propping  his  chin  upon 
his  two  small  fists,  he  looked  up  into  his  father's  face. 

"  Friedhelm  is  a  musician,  but  he  is  not  like  thee,"  he 
pursued.  Eugen  reddened :  I  laughed. 

"  True  as  can  be,  Sigmund,"  I  said. 

" '  I  would  I  were  as  honest  a  man ',"  said  Eugen, 
slightly  altering  Hamlet;  but  as  he  spoke  English  I  con- 
tented myself  with  shaking  my  head  at  him. 

"  I  like  Friedel,"  went  on  Sigmund.  "  I  love  him :  he 
is  good.  But  thou,  mein  Vater — " 

"  Well  ?  "  asked  Eugen  again. 

"  I  will  be  like  thee,"  said  the  boy,  vehemently,  his  eyes 
filling  with  tears.  "I  will.  Thou  saidst  that  men  who 
try  can  do  all  they  will — and  I  will,  I  will." 

"  Why,  my  child  ?  " 

It  was  a  long  earnest  look  that  the  child  gave  the  man. 
Eugen  had  said  to  me  some  few  days  before,  and  I  had 
fully  agreed  with  him  : 

"That  child's  life  is  one  strife  after  the  beautiful  in 
art,  and  nature,  and  life — how  will  he  succeed  in  the 
search  ? " 

I  thought  of  this — it  flashed  subtly  through  my  mind 
as  Sigmund  gazed  at  his  father  with  a  childish  adoration — 
then,  suddenly  springing  round  his  neck,  said,  passion- 
ately : 

"  Thou  art  so  beautiful — so  beautiful !  I  must  be  like 
thee." 

Eugen  bit  his  lip  momentarily,  saying  to  me  in  En- 
glish : 

"  I  am  his  God,  you  see,  Friedel.  What  will  he  do 
when  he  finds  out  what  a  common  clay  figure  it  was  he 
worshiped  ?  " 

But  he  had  not  the  heart  to  banter  the  child:  only 
held  the  little  clinging  figure  to  his  breast:  the  breast 
which  Sigmund  recognized  as  his  heaven. 

It  was  after  this  that  Eugen  said  to  me  when  we  were 
alone : 


Z64  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

"It  must  come  before  he  thinks  less  of  me  than  he 
does  now,  Friedel." 

To  these  speeches  I  could  never  make  any  answer, 
and  he  always  had  the  same  singular  smile — the  same 
paleness  about  the  lips,  and  unnatural  light  in  the  eyes 
when  he  spoke  so. 

He  had  accomplished  one  great  feat  in  those  three 
years — he  had  won  over  to  himself  his  comrades,  and 
that  without,  so  to  speak,  actively  laying  himself  out  to 
do  so.  He  had  struck  us  all  as  something  so  very  dif- 
ferent from  the  rest  of  us,  that,  on  his  arrival  and  for 
some  time  afterwards,  there  lingered  some  idea  that  he 
must  be  opposed  to  us.  But  I  very  soon,  and  the  rest  by 
gradual  degrees,  got  to  recognize  that  though  in,  not  of  us, 
yet  he  was  no  natural  enemy  of  ours :  if  he  made  no  ad- 
vances, he  never  avoided  or  repulsed  any,  but  on  the  very 
contrary,  seemed  surprised  and  pleased  that  any  one 
should  take  an  interest  in  him.  We  soon  found  that  he 
was  extremely  modest  as  to  his  own  merits  and  eager  to 
acknowledge  those  of  other  people. 

"And,"  said  Karl  Linders  once,  twirling  his  mustache, 
and  smiling  in  the  consciousness  that  his  own  outward 
presentment  was  not  to  be  called  repulsive,  "he  can't 
help  his  looks  :  no  fellow  can." 

At  the  time  of  which  I  speak,  his  popularity  was  much 
greater  than  he. knew,  or  would  have  believed  if  he  had 
been  told  of  it. 

Only  between  him  and  Von  Francius  there  remained  a 
constant  gulf  and  a  continual  coldness.  Von  Francius 
never  stepped  aside  to  make  friends;  Eugen  most  cer- 
tainly never  went  out  of  his  way  to  ingratiate  himself 
with  Von  Francius.  Courvoisier  had  been  appointed  con- 
trary to  the  wish  of  Von  Francius,  which  perhaps  caused 
the  latter  to  regard  him  a  little  coldly — even  more  coldly 
than  was  usual  with  him,  and  he  was  never  enthusiastic 
about  any  one  or  anything;  while  to  Eugen  there  was 
absolutely  nothing  in  Von  Francius  which  attracted  him, 
save  the  magnificent  power  of  his  musical  talent — a 
power  which  was  as  calm  and  cold  as  himself. 

Max  von  Francius  was  a  man  about  whom  there  were 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  165 

various  opinions,  expressed  and  unexpressed :  he  was  a 
person  who  never  spoke  of  himself,  and  who  contrived  to 
live  a  life  more  isolated  and  apart  than  any  one  I  have 
ever  known,  considering  that  he  went  much  into  society, 
and  mixed  a  good  deal  with  the  world.  In  every  circle 
in  Elberthal  which  could  by  any  means  be  called  select, 
his  society  was  eagerly  sought,  nor  did  he  refuse  it.  His 
days  were  full  of  engagements;  he  was  consulted,  and 
his  opinion  deferred  to  in  a  singular  manner — singular,  be- 
cause he  was  no  sayer  of  smooth  things,  but  the  very  con- 
trary :  because  he  hung  upon  no  patron,  submitted  to  no 
dictation,  was  in  his  way  an  autocrat.  This  state  of 
things  he  had  brought  about  entirely  by  force  of  his  own 
will  and  in  utter  opposition  to  precedent,  for  the  former 
directors  had  been  notoriously  under  the  thumb  of  certain 
influential  outsiders,  who  were  in  reality  the  directors  of 
the  Director.  It  was  the  universal  feeling  that  though 
the  Herr  Direktor  was  the  busiest  man,  and  had  the  lar- 
gest circle  of  acquaintance  of  any  one  in  Elberthal,  yet  that 
he  was  less  really  known  than  many  another  man  of  half 
his  importance.  His  business  as  Musik-direktor  took  up 
much  of  his  time :  the  rest  might  have  been  filled  to 
overflowing  with  private  lessons,  but  Von  Francius  was 
not  a  man  to  make  himself  cheap :  it  was  a  distinction  to 
be  taught  by  him,  the  more  so  as  the  position  or  circum- 
stances of  a  would-be  pupil  appeared  to  make  not  the 
very  smallest  impression  upon  him.  Distinguished  for 
hard,  practical  common  sense,  a  ready  sneer  at  anything 
high-flown  or  romantic,  discouraging  not  so  much  enthu- 
siasm as  the  outward  manifestation  of  it,  which  he  called 
melodrama,  Max  von  Francius  was  the  cynosure  of  all 
eyes  in  Elberthal,  and  bore  the  scrutiny  with  glacial  in- 
difference. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

FRIEDHELM'S   STORY. 

JOACHIM  RAFF.    Op.  177. 


*Z=^=ts=--*=m=m— ^j=FEEE5=M: 


AM4—  Fa— r-g — f 

ry—  '     *,    m     I  •» * 

tr      5t  •*•      ^ — 


(S^-^ST 


AKE    yourself   quite   easy,  Herr   Concertmeister. 
No  child  that  was  left  to  my  charge  was  ever 
known  to  come  to  harm." 

Thus  Frau  Schmidt  to  Eugen,  as  she  stood  with 
dubious  smile  and  folded  arms  in  our  parlor,  and  ha- 
rangued him,  while  he  and  I  stood,  violin-cases  in  our 
hands,  in  a  great  hurry,  and  anxious  to  be  off. 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


167 


"  You  are  very  kind,  Frau  Schmidt;  I  hope  he  will  not 
trouble  you." 

"  He  is  a  well-behaved  child,  and  not  nearly  so  disagree- 
able and  bad  to  do  with  as  most.  And  at  what  time  will 
you  be  back  ?  " 

"  That  is  uncertain.  It  just  depends  upon  the  length 
of  the  Probe" 

"Ha!  It  is  all  the  same.  I  am  going  out  for  a  little 
excursion  this  afternoon:  to  the  Grafenberg,  and  I  shall 
take  the  boy  with  me." 

"Oh,  thank  you,"  said  Eugen;  "  that  will  be  very  kind. 
He  wants  some  fresh  air,  and  I've  had  no  time  to  take  him 
out.  You  are  very  kind." 

"Trust  to  me,  Herr  Concertmeister — trust  to  me,"  said 
she,  with  the  usual  imperial  wave  of  her  hand,  as  she  at 
last  moved  aside  from  the  door- way  which  she  had  blocked 
up  and  allowed  us  to  pass  out.  A  last  wave  of  the  hand 
from  Eugen  to  Sigmund,  and  then  we  hurried  away  to  the 
station.  We  were  bound  for  Cologne,  where  that  year 
the  Lower  Rhine  Musikfest  was  to  be  held.  It  was  then 
somewhat  past  the  middle  of  April,  and  the  Fest  came  off 
at  Whitsuntide,  in  the  middle  of  May.  We,  amongst 
others,  were  engaged  to  strengthen  the  Cologne  orchestra 
for  the  occasion,  and  we  were  bidden  this  morning  to  the 
first  Probe. 

We  just  caught  our  train,  seeing  one  or  two  faces  of 
comrades  we  knew,  and  in  an  hour  were  in  Koln. 

"The  Tower  of  Babel,"  and  Raff's  Fifth  Symphonic, 
that  called  "Lenore,"  were  the  subjects  we  had  been 
summoned  to  practice.  They,  together  with  Beethoven's 
Choral  Fantasia  and  some  solos  were  to  come  off  on  the 
third  evening  of  the  Fest. 

The  Probe  lasted  a  long  time:  it  was  three  o'clock 
when  we  left  the  Concert  Hall,  after  five  hours'  hard  work. 

"Come  along,  Eugen,"  cried  I,  "we  have  just  time  to 
catch  the  three  ten,  but  only  just." 

"  Don't  wait  for  me,"  he  answered,  with  an  absent  look. 
"  I  don't  think  I  shall  come  by  it.  Look  after  yourself, 
Friedel,  and  Auf  Wiedersehcn  !" 

I  was  scarcely  surprised,  for  I  had  seen  that  the  music 


!58  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

had  deeply  moved  him,  and  I  can  understand  the  wish  of 
any  man  to  be  alone  with  the  remembrance  or  continuance 
of  such  emotions.  Accordingly  I  took  my  way  to  the 
station,  and  there  met  one  or  two  of  my  Elberthal  com- 
rades, who  had  been  on  the  same  errand  as  myself,  and, 
like  me,  were  returning  home. 

Lively  remarks  upon  the  probable  features  of  the  com- 
ing Fest,  and  the  circulation  of  any  amount  of  loose  and 
hazy  gossip  respecting  composers  and  soloists  followed, 
and  we  all  went  to  our  usual  restauration  and  dined  to- 
gether. There  was  an  opera  that  night  to  which  we  had 
Probe  that  afternoon,  and  I  scarcely  had  time  to  rush 
home  and  give  a  look  at  Sigmund  before  it  was  time  to  go 
again  to  the  theatre. 

Eugen's  place  remained  empty.  For  the  first  time 
since  he  had  come  into  the  orchestra  he  was  absent  from 
his  post,  and  I  wondered  what  could  have  kept  him. 

Taking  my  way  home,  very  tired,  with  fragments  of 
airs  from  Czarund  Zimmermann,  in  which  I  had  just  been 
playing,  the  "March"  from  "Lenore,"  and  scraps  of  cho- 
ruses and  airs  from  the  Thurm  zu  Babel,  all  ringing  in  my 
head  in  a  confused  jumble,  I  sprang  up  the  stairs  (up 
which  I  used  to  plod  so  wearily  and  so  spiritlessly),  and 
went  into  the  sitting-room.  Darkness !  After  I  had  stood 
still  and  gaze.d  about  for  a  time,  my  eyes  grew  accustomed 
to  the  obscurity.  I  perceived  that  a  dim  gray  light  still 
stole  in  at  the  open  window,  and  that  some  one  reposing 
in  an  easy-chair  was  faintly  shadowed  out  against  it. 

"  Is  that  you,  Friedhelm  ?  "  asked  Eugen's  voice. 

" Lieber  Himmel!  Are  you  there?  What  are  you  do- 
ing in  the  dark?" 

"Light  the  lamp,  my  Friedel!  Dreams  belong  to 
•darkness,  and  facts  to  light.  Sometimes  I  wish  light  and 
facts  had  never  been  invented." 

I  found  the  lamp  and  lighted  it,  carried  it  up  to  him, 
and  stood  before  him,  contemplating  him  curiously.  He 
lay  back  in  our  one  easy-chair,  his  hands  clasped  behind 
his  head,  his  legs  outstretched.  He  had  been  idle  for  the 
first  time,  I  think,  since  I  had  known  him.  He  had  been 
sitting  in  the  dark,  not  even  pretending  to  do  anything. 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  169 

"There  are  things  new  under  the  sun,"  said  I,  in  mingled 
amusement  and  amaze.  "  Absent  from  your  post,  to  the 
alarm  and  surprise  of  all  who  know  you,  here  I  find  you 
mooning  in  the  darkness,  and  when  I  illuminate  you,  you 
smile  up  at  me  in  a  somewhat  imbecile  manner,  and  say 
nothing.  What  may  it  portend  ?  " 

He  roused  himself,  sat  up,  and  looked  at  me  with  an 
ambiguous  half  smile. 

"  Most  punctual  of  men!  most  worthy,  honest,  fidgety  old 
friend,"  said  he,  with  still  the  same  suppressed  smile,  "how 
I  honor  you !  How  I  wish  I  could  emulate  you !  How  I 
wish  I  were  like  you !  and  yet,  Friedel,  old  boy,  you  have 
missed  something  this  afternoon." 

"So!  I  should  like  to  know  what  you  have  been  doing. 
Give  an  account  of  yourself." 

"I  have  erred  and  gone  astray,  and  have  found  it 
pleasant.  I  have  done  that  which  I  ought  not  to  have 
done,  and  am  sorry,  for  the  sake  of  morality  and  propriety, 
to  have  to  say  that  it  was  delightful;  far  more  delightful 
than  to  go  on  doing  just  what  one  ought  to  do.  Say, 
good  Mentor,  does  it  matter?  For  this  occasion  only. 
Never  again,  as  I  am  a  living  man." 

"  I  wish  you  would  speak  plainly,"  said  I,  first  putting 
the  lamp  and  then  myself  upon  the  table.  I  swung  my 
legs  about  and  looked  at  him. 

"  And  not  go  on  telling  you  stories  like  that  of  Munch- 
hausen,  in  Arabesks,  eh?  I  will  be  explicit;  I  will  use  the 
indicative  mood,  present  tense.  Now  then.  I  like 
Cologne;  I  like  the  cathedral  of  that  town;  I  like  the 
Hotel  du  Nord;  and,  above  all,  I  love  the  railway  station." 

"  Are  you  raving  ?  " 

"Did  you  ever  examine  the  Cologne  railway  station?" 
he  went  on,  lighting  a  cigar.  "  There  is  a  great  big  wait-1' 
ing-room,  which  they  lock  up  ;  there  is  a  delightful  place 
in  which  you  may  get  lost,  and  find  yourself  suddenly 
alone  in  a  deserted  wing  of  the  building,  with  an  imperti- 
nent porter,  who  doesn't  understand  one  word  of  Eng — of 
your  native  tongue — " 

"Are  you  mad?''1  was  my  varied  comment. 

"And  while  you  are  in  the  greatest  distress,  separated 


,70  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

from  your  friends,  who  have  gone  on  to  Elberthal  (like 
mine),  and  struggling  to  make  this  porter  understand  you, 
you  may  be  encountered  by  a  mooning  individual — a 
native  of  the  land — and  you  may  address  him.  He  drives 
the  fumes  of  music  from  his  brain,  and  looks  at  you,  and 
finds  you  charming — more  than  charming.  My  dear 
Friedhelm,  '  the  look  in  your  eye  is  quite  painful  to  see.' 
By  the  exercise  of  a  little  diplomacy,  which,  as  you  are 
charmingly  naive,  you  do  not  see  through,  he  manages  to 
seal  an  alliance  by  which  you  and  he  agree  to  pass  three 
or  four  hours  in  each  other's  society,  for  mutual  instruction 
and  entertainment.  The  entertainment  consists  of  cutlets, 
potatoes — the  kind  called  Kartoffeln  frittes,  which  they 
give  you  very  good  at  the  Nord — and  the  wine  known  to 
us  as  Doctorberger.  The  instruction  is  varied,  and  is  car- 
ried on  chiefly  in  the  aisle  of  the  Kolner  Dom,  to  the  sound 
of  music.  And  when  he  is  quite  spell-bound,  in  a  magic 
circle,  a  kind  of  golden  net  or  cloud,  he  pulls  out  an 
earthly  watch,  made  of  dust  and  dross  ('  More  fool  he,' 
your  eye  says,  and  you  are  quite  right),  and  sees  that 
time  is  advancing.  A  whole  army  of  horned  things  with 
stings,  called  feelings  of  propriety,  honor,  correctness,  the 
right  thing,  etc.,  come  in  thick  battalions  in  Stunnschritt 
upon  him,  and  with  a  hasty  word  he  hurries  her — he  gets 
off  to  the  station.  There  is  still  an  hour,  for  both  are 
coming  to  Elberthal — an  hour  of  unalloyed  delight;  then" 
— he  snapped  his  fingers — "a  droschke,  an  address,  a 
crack  of  the  whip,  and  ade!" 

I  sat  and  stared  at  him  while  he  wound  up  this  rho- 
domontade  by  singing : 

"Ade,  ade,  ade! 
Ja,  Scheiden  und  Meiden  thut  Weh !  " 

"You  are  too  young  and  fair,"  he  presently  resumed, 
"too  slight  and  sober  for  apoplexy;  but  a  painful  fear 
seizes  me  that  your  mental  faculties  are  under  some  slight 
cloud.  There  is  a  vacant  look  in  your  usually  radiant 
eye;  a  want  of  intelligence  in  the  curve  of  your  rosy 
lip— " 

"  Eugen  !  Stop  that  string  of  fantastic  rubbish !  Where 
have  you  been,  and  what  have  you  been  doing?" 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


171 


"I  have  not  deserved  that  from  you.  Haven't  I  been 
telling  you  all  this  time  where  I  have  been  and  what:  I 
have  been  doing  ?  There  is  a  brutality  in  your  behavior 
which  is  to  a  refined  mind  most  lamentable." 

"  But  where  have  you  been,  and  what  have  you  done  ?  " 

"  Another  time,  mein  Lieber — another  time ! " 

With  this  misty  promise  I  had  to  content  myself.  I 
speculated  upon  the  subject  for  that  evening,  and  came 
to  the  conclusion  that  he  had  invented  the  whole  story, 
to  see  whether  I  would  believe  it  (for  we  had  all  a  repre- 
hensible habit  of  that  kind);  and  very  soon  the  whole 
circumstance  dropped  from  my  memory. 

On  the  following  morning  I  had  occasion  to  go  to  the 
public  eye  hospital.  Eugen  and  I  had  interested  our- 
selves to  procure  a  ticket  for  free,  or  almost  free,  treat- 
ment as  an  out-patient  for  a  youth  whom  we  knew — one 
of  the  second  violins — whose  sight  was  threatened,  and 
who,  poor  boy,  could  not  afford  to  pay  for  proper  treat- 
ment. Eugen  being  busy,  I  went  to  receive  the  ticket. 

It  was  the  first  time  I  had  been  in  the  place.  I  was 
shown  into  a  room  with  the  light  somewhat  obscured,  and 
there  had  to  wait  some  few  minutes.  Every  one  had 
something  the  matter  with  his  or  her  eyes — at  least  so 
I  thought,  until  my  own  fell  upon  a  girl  who  leaned, 
looking  a  little  tired  and  a  little  disappointed,  against  a 
tall  desk  at  one  side  of  the  room. 

She  struck  me  on  the  instant  as  no  feminine  appear- 
ance had  ever  struck  me  before.  She,  like  myself,  seemed 
to  be  waiting  for  some  one  or  something.  She  was  tall 
and  supple  in  figure,  and  her  face  was  girlish  and  very 
innocent  looking;  and  yet,  both  in  her  attitude  and  coun- 
tenance there  was  a  little  pride,  some  hauteur.  It* was 
evidently  natural  to  her,  and  sat  well  upon  her.  A  slight 
but  exquisitely  moulded  figure,  different  from  those  of  our 
stalwart  Elberthaler  Mddchen — finer,  more  refined  and 
distinguished,  and  a  face  to  dream  of.  I  thought  it  then, 
and  I  say  it  now.  Masses,  almost  too  thick  and  heavy, 
of  dark  auburn  hair,  with  here  and  there  a  glint  of 
warmer  hue,  framed  that  beautiful  face — half  woman's, 
half  child's.  Dark  gray  eyes,  with  long  dark  lashes  and 


172 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN". 


brows;  cheeks  naturally  very  pale,  but  sensitive,  like 
some  delicate  alabaster,  showing  the  red  at  every  wave 
of  emotion ;  something  racy,  piquant,  unique,  enveloped 
the  whole  appearance  of  this  young  girl.  I  had  never 
seen  anything  at  all  like  her  before. 

She  looked  wearily  round  the  room,  and  sighed  a  little. 
Then  her  eyes  met  mine ;  and  seeing  the  earnestness  with 
which  I  looked  at  her,  she  turned  away,  and  a  slight, 
very  slight,  flush  appeared  in  her  cheek. 

I  had  time  to  notice  (for  everything  about  her  inter- 
ested me)  that  her  dress  was  of  the  very  plainest  and 
simplest  kind,  so  plain  as  to  be  almost  poor,  and  its 
fashion  not  of  the  newest,  even  in  Elberthal. 

Then  my  name  was  called  out.  I  received  my  ticket, 
and  went  to  the  Probe  at  the  theatre. 


CHAPTER  V. 

"Wishes  are  pilgrims  to  the  vale  of  tears." 

A  WEEK — ten  days  passed.  I  did  not  see  the  beau- 
£\  tiful  girl  again — nor  did  I  forget  her.  One  night  at 
the  opera,  I  found  her.  It  was  Lohengrin — but  she  has 
told  all  that  story  herself — how  Eugen  came  in  late  (he 
had  a  trick  of  never  coming  in  till  the  last  minute,  and  I 
used  to  think  he  had  some  reason  for  it) — and  the  recog- 
nition and  the  cut  direct,  first  on  her  side,  then  on  his. 

Eugen  and  I  walked  home  together,  arm-in-arm,  and 
I  felt  provoked  with  him. 

"  I  say,  Eugen,  did  you  see  the  young  lady  with  Vin- 
cent and  the  others  in  the  first  row  of  the  parquet  ?  " 

"  I  saw  some  six  or  eight  ladies  of  various  ages  in  the 
first  row  of  the  parquet.  Some  were  old  and  some  were 
young.  One  had  a  knitted  shawl  over  her  head,  which 
she  kept  on  during  the  whole  of  the  performance." 

"Don't  be  so  maddening.  I  said  the  young  lady  with 
Vincent,  and  Fraulein  Sartorius.  By  the  bye,  Eugen,  do 
you  know,  or  have  you  ever  known  her  ?  " 

"Who?" 

"  Fraulein  Sartorius." 

"Who  is  she?" 

"Oh,  bother!  The  young  lady  I  mean  sat  exactly 
opposite  to  you  and  me — a  beautiful  young  girl ;  an 
Englandcrin — fair,  with  that  hair  that  we  never  see  here, 
and—" 

"  In  a  brown  hat — sitting  next  to  Vincent.  I  saw  her 
— yes." 


I74  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

"She  saw  you  too." 

"  She  must  have  been  blind  if  she  hadn't." 

"  Have  you  seen  her  before  ?  " 

"  I  have  seen  her  before — yes." 

"And  spoken  to  her?" 

"  Even  spoken  to  her." 

"  Do  tell  me  what  it  all  means." 

"  Nothing." 

"But,  Eugen— " 

"Are  you  so  struck  with  her,  Fried  el  ?  Don't  lose 
your  heart  to  her,  I  warn  you." 

"Why?"  I  inquired,  wilily,  hoping  the  answer  would 
give  me  some  clew  to  his  acquaintance  with  her. 

"Because,  mein  Bester,  she  is  a  cut  above  you  and  me, 
in  a  different  sphere,  one  that  we  know  nothing  about. 
What  is  more,  she  knows  it,  and  shows  it.  Be  glad  that 
you  cannot  lay  yourself  open  to  the  snub  that  I  got  to- 
night." 

There  was  so  much  bitterness  in  his  tone  that  I  was 
surprised.  But  a  sudden  remembrance  flashed  into  my 
mind  of  his  strange  remarks  after  I  had  left  him  that  day 
at  Cologne,  and  I  laughed  to  myself,  nor,  when  he  asked 
me,  would  I  tell  him  why.  That  evening  he  had  very 
little  to  say  to  Karl  Linders  and  myself. 

Eugen  never  spoke  to  me  of  the  beautiful  girl  who  had 
behaved  so  strangely  that  evening,  though  we  saw  her 
again  and  again. 

Sometimes  I  used  to  meet  her  in  the  street,  in  company 
with  the  dark,  plain  girl,  Anna  Sartorius,  who,  I  fancied, 
always  surveyed  Eugen  with  a  look  of  recognition.  The 
two  young  women  formed  in  appearance  an  almost  start- 
ling contrast.  She  came  to  all  the  concerts,  as  if  she 
made  music  a  study — generally  she  was  with  a  stout, 
good-natured  looking  German  frdulein,  and  the  young 
Englishman,  Vincent.  There  was  always  something 
rather  melancholy  about  her  grace  and  beauty. 

Most  beautiful  she  was :  with  long,  slender,  artist-like 
hands,  the  face  a  perfect  oval,  but  the  features  more 
piquant  than  regular ;  sometimes  a  subdued  fire  glowed  in 
her  eyes  and  compressed  her  lips,  which  removed  her 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  !7S 

altogether  from  the  category  of  spiritless  beauties — a  genus 
for  which  I  never  had  the  least  taste. 

One  morning  Courvoisier  and  I,  standing  just  within 
the  entrance  to  the  theatre  orchestra,  saw  two  people  go 
by.  One,  a  figure  well  enough  known  to  every  one  in 
Elberthal,  and  especially  to  us — that  of  Max  von  Fran- 
cius. Did  I  ever  say  that  Von  Francius  was  an  exceed- 
ingly handsome  fellow,  in  a  certain  dark,  clean-shaved 
style?  On  that  occasion  he  was  speaking  with  more  ani- 
mation than  was  usual  with  him,  and  the  person  to  whom 
he  had  unbent  so  far  was  the  fair  Englishwoman — that 
enigmatical  beauty  who  had  cut  my  friend  at  the  opera. 
She  also  was  looking  animated  and  very  beautiful:  her 
face  turned  to  his  with  a  smile — a  glad,  gratified  smile. 
He  was  saying: 

"  But  in  the  next  lesson,  you  know — " 

They  passed  on.  I  turned  to  ask  Eugen  if  he  had 
seen.  I  needed  not  to  put  the  question.  He  had  seen. 
There  was  a  forced  smile  upon  his  lips.  Before  I  could 
speak  he  had  said: 

"  It's  time  to  go  in,  Friedel;  come  along! "  With  which 
he  turned  into  the  theatre,  and  I  followed  thoughtfully. 

Then  it  was  rumored  that  at  the  coming  concert — the 
benefit  of  Von  Francius — a  new  soprano  was  to  appear — 
a  young  lady  of  whom  report  used  varied  tones:  some 
believable  facts  at  least  we  learned  about  her.  Her  name, 
they  said,  was  Wedderburn;  she  was  an  Englishwoman, 
and  had  a  most  wonderful  voice.  The  Herr  Direktor 
took  a  very  deep  interest  in  her;  he  not  only  gave  her 
lessons ;  he  had  asked  to  give  her  lessons,  and  intended  to 
form  of  her  an  artiste  who  should  one  day  be  to  the  world 
a  kind  of  Patti,  Lucca,  or  Nilsson. 

I  had  no  doubt  in  my  own  mind  as  to  who  she  was,  but 
for  all  that  I  felt  considerable  excitement  on  the  evening 
of  the  Hauptprobe  to  the  Verlorenes  Paradies. 

Yes — I  was  right.  Miss  Wedderburn,  the  pupil  of  Von 
Francius,  of  whom  so  much  was  prophesied,  was  the 
beautiful  forlorn-looking  English  girl.  The  feeling  which 
grew  upon  me  that  evening,  and  which  I  never  found 
reason  afterwards  to  alter,  was  that  she  was  modest,  gentle, 


176 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


yet  spirited,  very  gifted,  and  an  artiste  by  nature  and  gift, 
yet  sadly  ill  at  ease  and  out  of  place  in  that  world  into 
which  Von  Francius  wished  to  lead  her. 

She  sat  quite  near  to  Eugen  and  me,  and  I  saw  how 
alone  she  was,  and  how  she  seemed  to  feel  her  loneliness. 
I  saw  how  certain  young  ladies  drew  themselves  together, 
and  looked  at  her  (it  was  on  this  occasion  that  I  first  be- 
gan to  notice  the  silent  behavior  of  women  towards  each 
other,  and  the  more  I  have  observed,  the  more  has  my 
wonder  grown  and  increased),  and  whispered  behind  their 
music,  and  shrugged  their  shoulders  when  Von  Francius, 
seeing  how  isolated  she  seemed,  bent  forward  and  said  a 
few  kind  words  to  her. 

I  liked  him  for  it.  After  all,  he  was  a  man.  But  his 
distinguishing  the  child  did  not  add  to  the  delights  of  her 
position — rather  made  it  worse.  I  put  myself  in  her  place 
as  well  as  I  could,  and  felt  her  feelings  when  Von  Fran- 
cius introduced  her  to  one  of  the  young  ladies  near  her, 
who  first  stared  at  him,  then  at  her,  then  inclined  her  head 
a  little  forward  and  a  little  backward,  turned  her  back  up- 
on Miss  Wedderburn,  and  appeared  lost  in  conversation 
of  the  deepest  importance  with  her  neighbor.  And  I 
thought  of  the  words  which  Karl  Linders  had  said  to  us 
in  haste  and  anger,  after  a  disappointment  he  had  lately 
had,  "Das  Weib  ist  der  TeufeZ."  Yes,  Woman  is  the 
Devil  sometimes,  thought  I,  and  a  mean  kind  of  devil 
too.  A  female  Mephistopheles  would  not  have  damned 
Gretchen's  soul,  nor  killed  her  body;  she  would  have  left 
the  latter  on  this  earthly  sphere,  and  damned  her  reputa- 
tion. 

Von  Francius  was  a  clever  man,  but  he  made  a  grand 
mistake  that  night,  unless  he  were  desirous  of  making  his 
protegee  as  uncomfortable  as  possible.  How  could  those 
ladies  feel  otherwise  than  insulted  at  seeing  the  man  of  ice 
so  suddenly  attentive  and  bland  to  a  nobody,  an  up-start, 
and  a  beautiful  one? 

The  Probe  continued,  and  still  she  sat  alone  and  un- 
spoken to,  her  only  acquaintance  or  companion  seeming 
to  be  Fraulein  Sartorius,  with  whom  she  had  come  in.  I 
saw  how,  when  Von  Francius  called  upon  her  to  do  her 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


177 


part,  and  the  looks  which  had  hitherto  been  averted  from 
her  were  now  turned  pitilessly  and  unwinkingly  upon  her, 
she  quailed.  She  bit  her  lip;  her  hand  trembled.  I 
turned  to  Eugen  with  a  look  which  said  volumes.  He  sat 
with  his  arms  folded,  and  his  face  perfectly  devoid  of  all 
expression,  gazing  straight  before  him. 

Miss  Wedderburn  might  have  been  satisfied  to  the  full 
with  her  revenge.  That  was  a  voice!  such  a  volume  of 
pure,  exquisite  melody  as  I  had  rarely  heard.  After  hear- 
ing that,  all  doubts  were  settled.  The  gift  might  be  a 
blessing  or  a  curse — let  every  one  decide  that  for  himself, 
according  to  his  style  of  thinking — but  it  was  there.  She 
possessed  the  power  which  put  her  out  of  the  category  of 
commonplace,  and  had  the  most  melodious  Oj>en,  Ses- 
ame /  with  which  to  besiege  the  doors  of  the  courts  in 
which  dwell  artists — creative  and  interpretative. 

The  performance  finished  the  gap  between  her  and  her 
companions.  Their  looks  said,  "You  are  not  one  of  us." 
My  angry  spirit  said,  "  No ;  you  can  never  be  like  her." 

She  seemed  half  afraid  of  what  she  had  done  when  it 
was  over,  and  shrunk  into  herself  with  downcast  eyes 
and  nervous  quivering  of  the  lips  at  the  subdued  applause 
of  the  men.  I  wanted  to  applaud  too,  but  I  looked  at 
Eugen.  I  had  instinctively  given  him  some  share  in  the 
affairs  of  this  lovely  creature — a  share  which  he  always 
strenuously  repudiated,  both  tacitly  and  openly. 

Nevertheless,  when  I  saw  him  I  abstained  from  ap- 
plauding, knowing,  by  a  lightning-quick  intuition,  that  it 
would  be  highly  irritating  to  him.  He  showed  no  emo- 
tion ;  if  he  had  done,  I  should  not  have  thought  the  oc- 
casion was  anything  special  to  him.  It  was  his  absurd 
gravity,  stony  inexpressiveness,  which  impressed  me  with 
the  fact  that  he  was  moved — moved  against  his  will  and 
his  judgment.  He  could  no  more  help  approving  both 
of  her  and  her  voice  than  he  could  help  admiring  a 
perfect,  half-opened  rose. 

It  was  over,  and  we  went  out  of  the  saal,  across  the 
road,  and  home. 

Sigmund,  who  had  not  been  very  well  that  day,  was 
awake,  and  restless.  Eugen  took  him  up,  wrapped  him 


i78 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


in  a  little  bed-gown,  carried  him  into  the  other  room,  and 
sat  down  with  him.  The  child  rested  his  head  on  the 
loved  breast,  and  was  soothed. 


She  had  gone ;  the  door  had  closed  after  her.  Eugen 
turned  to  me,  and  took  Sigmund  into  his  arms  again. 

"Mein  Vater,  who  is  the  beautiful  lady,  and  why  did 
you  speak  so  harshly  to  her?  Why  did  you  make  her 
cry?" 

The  answer,  though  ostensibly  spoken  to  Sigmund,  was 
a  revelation  to  me. 

"That  I  may  not  have  to  cry  myself,"  said  Eugen, 
kissing  him. 

"  Could  the  lady  make  thee  cry?"  demanded  Sigmund, 
sitting  up,  much  excited  at  the  idea. 

Another  kiss  and  a  half  laugh  was  the  answer.  Then 
he  bade  him  go  to  sleep,  as  he  did  not  understand  what 
he  was  talking  about. 

By  and  by  Sigmund  did  drop  to  sleep.  Eugen  carried 
him  to  his  bed,  tucked  him  up,  and  returned.  We  sat  in 
silence — such  an  uncomfortable  constrained  silence,  as 
had  never  before  been  between  us.  I  had  a  book  before 
me.  I  saw  no  word  of  it.  I  could  not  drive  the  vision 
away — the  lovely,  pleading  face,  the  penitence.  Good 
heavens !  How  could  he  repulse  her  as  he  had  done  ? 
Her  repeated  request  that  he  would  take  that  money — 
what  did  it  all  mean?  And,  moreover,  my  heart  was 
sore  that  he  had  concealed  it  all  from  me.  About  the 
past  I  felt  no  resentment;  there  was  a  secret  there  which 
I  respected;  but  I  was  cut  up  at  this.  The  more  I 
thought  of  it,  the  keener  was  the  pain  I  felt. 

"Friedel!" 

I  looked  up.  Eugen  was  leaning  across  the  table  and 
his  hand  was  stretched  towards  me ;  his  eyes  looked  full 
into  mine.  I  answered  his  look,  but  I  was  not  clear  yet. 

"  Forgive  me ! " 

"  Forgive  thee  what  ?  " 

"This  playing  with  thy  confidence." 

"  Don't  mention  it,"  I  forced  myself  to  say,  but  the  sore 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


179 


feeling  still  remained.  "You  have  surely  a  right  to  keep 
your  affairs  to  yourself  if  you  choose." 

"  You  will  not  shake  hands  ?  Well,  perhaps  I  have  no 
right  to  ask  it ;  but  I  should  like  to  tell  you  all  about  it." 

I  put  my  hand  into  his. 

"  I  was  wounded,"  said  I,  "  it  is  true.     But  it  is  over." 

"  Then  listen,  Friedel ! " 

He  told  me  the  story  of  his  meeting  with  Miss  Wedder- 
burn.  All  he  said  of  the  impression  she  had  made  upon 
him  was : 

"  I  thought  her  very  charming,  and  the  loveliest  creat- 
ure I  had  ever  seen.  And  about  the  trains.  It  stands  in 
this  way.  I  thought  a  few  hours  of  her  society  would 
make  me  very  happy,  and  would  be  like — oh,  well !  I 
knew  that  in  the  future,  if  she  ever  should  see  me  again, 
she  would  either  treat  me  with  distant  politeness  as  an  in- 
ferior, or,  supposing  she  discovered  that  I  had  cheated 
her,  would  cut  me  dead.  And  as  it  did  not  matter,  as  I 
could  not  possibly  be  an  acquaintance  of  hers  in  the  fut- 
ure, I  gave  myself  that  pleasure  then.  It  has  turned  out 
a  mistake  on  my  part,  but  that  is  nothing  new;  my  whole 
existence  has  been  a  monstrous  mistake.  However,  now 
she  sees  what  a  churl's  nature  was  under  my  fair-seeming 
exterior,  her  pride  will  show  her  what  to  do.  She  will 
take  a  wrong  view  of  my  character,  but  what  does  that  sig- 
nify ?  She  will  say  that  to  be  deceitful  first  and  uncivil 
afterwards  are  the  main  features  of  the  German  character, 
and  when  she  is  at  Cologne  on  her  honey-moon,  she  will 
tell  her  bridegroom  about  this  adventure,  and  he  will  re- 
mark that  the  fellow  wanted  horsewhipping,  and  she — " 

"There!  You  have  exercised  your  imagination  quite 
sufficiently.  Then  you  intend  to  keep  up  this  farce  of  not 
recognizing  her.  Why  ?  " 

He  hesitated,  looked  as  nearly  awkward  as  he  could, 
and  said,  a  little  constrainedly : 

"  Because  I  think  it  will  be  for  the  best." 

"For  you  or  for  her?"  I  inquired,  not  very  fairly,  but 
I  could  not  resist  it. 

Eugen  flushed  all  over  his  face. 

"  What  a  question ! "  was  all  he  said. 


jg0  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

"  I  do  not  think  it  such  a  remarkable  question.  Either 
you  have  grown  exceedingly  nervous  as  to  your  own 
strength  of  resistance,  or  your  fear  for  hers." 

"Friedhelm,"  said  he  in  a  cutting  voice,  "that  is  a  tone 
which  I  should  not  have  believed  you  capable  of  taking. 
It  is  vulgar,  my  dear  fellow,  and  uncalled  for ;  and  it  is  so 
unlike  you  that  I  am  astonished.  If  you  had  been  one  of 
the  other  fellows — " 

I  fired  up. 

"  Excuse  me,  Eugen,  it  might  be  vulgar  if  I  were  mere- 
ly chaffing  you,  but  I  am  not;  and  I  think,  after  what 
you  have  told  me,  that  I  have  said  very  little.  I  am  not 
so  sure  of  her  despising  you.  She  looks  much  more  as  if 
she  were  distressed  at  your  despising  her." 

"  Pre — pos — ter — ous  ! " 

"  If  you  can  mention  an  instance  in  her  behavior  this 
evening  which  looked  as  if  she  were  desirous  of  snubbing 
you,  I  should  be  obliged  by  your  mentioning  it,"  I  con- 
tinued. 

"Well— well— " 

"Well — well.  If  she  had  wished  to  snub  you  she  would 
have  sent  you  that  money  through  the  post,  and  made  an 
end  of  it.  She  simply  desired,  as  was  evident  all  along, 
to  apologize  for  having  been  rude  to  a  person  wh  o  had 
been  kind  to  her.  I  can  quite  understand  it,  and  I  am 
not  sure  that  your  behavior  will  not  have  the  very  opposite 
effect  to  that  you  expect." 

"  I  think  you  are  mistaken.  However,  it  does  not  mat- 
ter; our  paths  lie  quite  apart.  She  will  have  plenty 
of  other  things  to  take  up  her  time  and  thoughts.  Any- 
how I  am  glad  that  you  and  I  are  quits  once  more." 

So  was  I.  We  said  no  more  upon  the  subject,  but  I  al- 
ways felt  as  if  a  kind  of  connecting  link  existed  between 
my  friend  and  me,  and  that  beautiful,  solitary  English 
girl. 

The  link  was  destined  to  become  yet  closer.  The  con- 
cert was  over  at  which  she  sang.  She  had  a  success.  I 
see  she  has  not  mentioned  it;  a  success  which  isolated 
her  still  more  from  her  companions,  inasmuch  as  it  made 
her  more  distinctly  professional  and  them  more  severely 
virtuous. 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  tgi 

One  afternoon  when  Eugen  and  I  happened  to  have 
nothing  to  do,  we  took  Sigmund  to  the  Grafenberg.  We 
wandered  about  in  the  fir-wood,  and  at  last  came  to  a  pause 
and  rested.  Eugen  lay  upon  his  back  and  gazed  up  into 
the  thickness  of  brown-green  fir  above,  and  perhaps  guess- 
ed at  the  heaven  beyond  the  dark  shade.  I  sat  and  stared 
before  me  through  the  straight  red-brown  stems  across  the 
ground, 

"With  sheddings  from  the  pining  umbrage  tinged," 

to  an  invisible  beyond  which  had  charms  for  me,  and  was 
a  kind  of  symphonic  beauty  in  my  mind.  Sigmund  lay 
flat  upon  his  stomach,  kicked  his  heels  and  made  intricate 
patterns  with  the  fir  needles,  while  he  hummed  a  gentle  song 
to  himself  in  a  small,  sweet  voice,  true  as  a  lark's,  but  sad- 
der. There  was  utter  stillness  and  utter  calm  all  round. 

Presently  Eugen's  arm  stole  around  Sigmund  and  drew 
him  closer  and  closer  to  him,  and  they  continued  to  look 
at  each  other  until  a  mutual  smile  broke  upon  both  faces, 
and  the  boy  said,  his  whole  small  frame  as  well  as  his 
voice  quivering  (the  poor  little  fellow  had  nerves  that  vi- 
brated to  the  slightest  emotion) :  "I  love  thee." 

A  light  leaped  into  the  father's  eyes :  a  look  of  pain  fol- 
lowed it  quickly. 

"  And  I  shall  never  leave  thee,"  said  Sigmund. 

Eugen  parried  the  necessity  of  speaking  by  a  kiss. 

"  I  love  thee  too,  Friedel,"  continued  he,  taking  my  hand. 
"  We  are  very  happy  together,  aren't  we  ?  "  And  he  laugh- 
ed placidly  to  himself. 

Eugen,  as  if  stung  by  some  tormenting  thought,  sprang 
up  and  we  left  the  wood. 

Oh,  far  back,  by-gone  day !  There  was  a  soft  light 
over  you  shed  by  a  kindly  sun.  That  was  a  time  in  which 
joy  ran  a  golden  thread  through  the  gray  homespun  of 
every-day  life. 

Back  to  the  restauration  at  the  foot  of  the  Berg,  where 
Sigmund  was  supplied  with  milk  and  Eugen  and  I  with 
beer,  where  we  sat  at  a  little  wooden  table  in  a  garden  and 
the  pleasant  clack  of  friendly  conversation  sounded  around ; 
where  the  women  tried  to  make  friends  with  Sigmund,  and 


X82  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

the  girls  whispered  behind  their  coffee-cups,  or  (pace,  el- 
egant fiction ! )  their  beer-glasses,  and  always  happened 
to  be  looking  up  if  our  eyes  roved  that  way.  Two  poor 
Musiker  and  a  little  boy :  persons  of  no  importance  what- 
ever, who  could  scrape  their  part  in  the  symphonic  with 
some  intelligence  and  feel  they  had  done  their  duty. 
Well,  well !  it  is  not  all  of  us  who  can  do  even  so  much. 
I  know  some  instruments  that  are  always  out  of  tune. 
Let  us  be  complacent  where  we  justly  can.  The  oppor- 
tunities are  few. 

We  took  our  way  home.  The  days  were  long,  and  it 
was  yet  light  when  we  returned  and  found  the  reproach- 
ful face  of  Frau  Schmidt  looking  for  us,  and  her  arms  open 
to  receive  the  weary  little  lad  who  had  fallen  asleep  on  his 
father's  shoulder. 

I  went  up-stairs,  and,  by  a  natural  instinct,  to  the  win- 
dow. Those  facing  it  were  open :  some  one  moved  in 
the  room.  Two  chords  of  a  piano  were  struck.  Some 
one  came  and  stood  by  the  window,  shielded  her  eyes 
from  the  rays  of  the  setting  sun  which  streamed  down  the 
street  and  looked  westwards.  Eugen  was  passing  behind 
me.  I  pulled  him  to  the  window,  and  we  both  looked — 
silently,  gravely. 

The  girl  dropped  her  hand:  her  eyes  fell  upon  us. 
The  color  mounted  to  her  cheek :  she  turned  away  and 
went  to  the  interior  of  the  room.  It  was  May  Wedder- 
burn. 

"Also!"  said  Eugen,  after  a  pause.  "A  new  neigh- 
bor; it  reminds  me  of  one  of  Andersen's  Miirchcn,  but  I 
don't  know  which." 


BOOK  IV. 

CHILDREN  OF  THE  WORLD. 


CHAPTER  I. 

"For  though  he  lived  aloof  from  ken, 
The  world's  unwitnessed  denizen, 

The  love  within  him  stirs 
Abroad,  and  with  the  hearts  of  men 
His  own  confers." 

nPHE  story  of  my  life  from  day  to  day"  was  dull 
enough,  same  enough  for  some  time  after  I  went 
to  live  at  the  Wehrhahn.  I  was  studying  hard,  and  my 
only  variety  was  the  letters  I  had  from  home;  not  very 
cheering,  these.  One,  which  I  received  from  Adelaide, 
pu/.zled  me  somewhat.  After  speaking  of  her  coming 
marriage  in  a  way  which  made  me  sad  and  uncomfortable, 
she  condescended  to  express  her  approval  of  what  I  was 
doing,  and  went  on : 

"  I  am  catholic  in  my  tastes.  I  suppose  all  our  friends 
would  faint  at  the  idea  of  there  being  a  'singer'  in  the 
family.  Now,  I  should  rather  like  you  to  be  a  singer — 
only  be  a  great  one — not  a  little  twopenny-halfpenny 
person  who  has  to  advertise  for  engagements. 

"  Now  I  am  going  to  give  you  some  advice.  This 
Herr  von  Francius — your  teacher  or  whatever  he  is.  Be 
cautious  what  you  are  about  with  him.  I  don't  say  more, 
but  I  say  that  again.  Be  cautious!  Don't  burn  your 


1 84 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


fingers.  Now,  I  have  not  much  time,  and  I  hate  writing 
letters,  as  you  know.  In  a  week  I  am  to  be  married,  and 
then — nous  verrons.  We  go  to  Paris  first,  and  then  on 
to  Rome,  where  we  shall  winter — to  gratify  my  taste,  I 
wonder,  or  Sir  Peter's  for  moldering  ruins,  ancient  pict- 
ures, and  the  Coliseum  by  moonlight  ?  I  have  no  doubt 
that  we  shall  do  our  duty  by  the  respectable  old  struct- 
ures. Remember  what  I  said,  and  write  to  me  now  and 
then. — A." 

I  frowned  and  puzzled  a  little  over  this  letter.  Be 
cautious?  In  what  possible  way  could  I  be  cautious? 
What  need  could  there  be  for  it  when  all  that  passed  be- 
tween me  and  Von  Francius  was  the  daily  singing  lesson 
at  which  he  was  so  strict  and  severe,  sometimes  so  sharp 
and  cutting  with  me.  I  saw  him  then  :  I  saw  him  also 
at  the  constant  Proben  to  concerts  whose  season  had  al- 
ready begun ;  Proben  to  the  Passions-musik,  the  Messiah, 
etc.  At  one  or  two  of  these  concerts  I  was  to  sing.  I 
did  not  like  the  idea,  but  I  could  not  make  Von  Francius 
see  it  as  I  did.  He  said  I  must  sing — it  was  part  of  my 
studies,  and  I  was  fain  to  bend  to  his  will. 

Von  Francius — I  looked  at  Adelaide's  letter,  and  smiled 
again.  Von  Francius  had  kept  his  word :  he  had  behaved 
to  me  as  a  kind  elder  brother.  He  seemed  instinctively 
to  understand  the  wish,  which  was  very  strong  on  my 
part,  not  to  live  entirely  at  Miss  Hallam's  expense — to 
provide,  partially  at  any  rate,  for  myself,  if  possible.  He 
helped  me  to  do  this.  Now  he  brought  me  some  music 
to  be  copied :  now  he  told  me  of  a  young  lady  who 
wanted  lessons  in  English — now  of  one  little  thing — now 
of  another,  which  kept  me,  to  my  pride  and  joy,  in  such 
slender  pocket-money  as  I  needed.  Truly,  I  used  to  think 
in  those  days,  it  does  not  need  much  money  nor  much 
room  for  a  person  like  me  to  keep  her  place  in  the  world. 
I  wished  to  trouble  no  one — only  to  work  as  hard  as  I 
could,  and  do  the  work  that  was  set  for  me  as  well  as  I 
knew  how.  I  had  my  wish  and  so  far  was  not  unhappy. 

But  what  did  Adelaide  mean  ?  True,  I  had  once  de- 
scribed Von  Francius  to  her  as  young,  that  is  youngish, 
clever  and  handsome.  Did  she,  remembering  my  well- 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  185 

known  susceptibility,  fear  that  I  might  fall  in  love  with 
him  and  compromise  myself  by  some  silly  Schwarmerei? 
I  laughed  aloud  all  by  myself  at  the  very  idea  of  such  a 
thing.  Fall  in  love  with  Von  Francius,  and — my  eyes 
fell  upon  the  two  windows  over  the  way.  No :  my  heart 
was  pure  of  the  faintest  feeling  for  him,  save  that  of  re- 
spect, gratitude,  and  liking  founded  at  that  time  more  on 
esteem  than  spontaneous  growth.  And  he — I  smiled  at 
that  idea,  too. 

In  all  my  long  interviews  with  Von  Francius  through- 
out our  intercourse  he  maintained  one  unvaried  tone,  that 
of  a  kind,  frank,  protecting  interest,  with  something  of  the 
patron  on  his  part.  He  would  converse  with  me  about 
Schiller  and  Goethe,  true ;  he  would  also  caution  me 
against  such  and  such  shop-keepers  as  extortioners,  and 
tell  me  the  place  where  they  gave  the  largest  discount  on 
music  paid  for  on  the  spot :  would  discuss  the  Waldstein 
or  Appassionato  with  me,  or  the  beauties  of  Rubinstein  or 
the  deep  meanings  of  Schumann,  also  the  relative  cost  of 
living  en  pension  or  providing  for  one's  self. 

No.  Adelaide  was  mistaken.  I  wished  parenthetically 
that  she  could  make  the  acquaintance  of  Von  Francius, 
and  learn  how  mistaken — and  again  my  eyes  fell  upon  the 
opposite  windows.  Friedhelm  Helfen  leaned  from  one, 
holding  fast  Courvoisier's  boy.  The  rich  Italian  coloring 
of  the  lovely  young  face ;  the  dusky  hair;  the  glow  upon 
the  cheeks,  the  deep  blue  of  his  serge  dress,  made  the 
effect  of  a  warmly-tinted  southern  flower :  it  was  a  flower- 
face  too ;  delicate  and  rich  at  once. 

Adelaide's  letter  dropped  unheeded  to  the  floor.  Those 
two  could  not  see  me,  and  I  had  a  joy  in  watching  them. 

To  say,  however,  that  I  actually  watched  my  opposite 
neighbors  would  not  be  true.  I  studiously  avoided  watch- 
ing them:  never  sat  in  the  window;  seldom  showed  my- 
self at  it,  though  in  passing  I  sometimes  allowed  myself 
to  linger  and  so  had  glimpses  of  those  within.  They  were 
three  and  I  was  one.  They  were  the  happier  by  two. 
Or  if  I  knew  that  they  were  out,  that  a  Probe  was  going 
on,  or  an  opera  or  concert,  there  was  nothing  I  liked  bet- 
ter than  to  sit  for  a  time  and  look  to  the  opposite  windows. 


!86  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

They  were  nearly  always  open  as  were  also  mine,  for  the 
heat  of  the  stove  was  oppressive  to  me,  and  I  preferred 
to  temper  it  with  a  little  of  the  raw  outside  air.  I  used 
sometimes  to  hear  from  those  opposite  rooms  the  practic- 
ing or  playing  of  passages  on  the  violin  and  violoncello — 
scales,  shakes,  long  complicated  flourishes  and  phrases. 
Sometimes  I  heard  the  very  strains  that  I  had  to  sing  to. 
Airs,  scraps  of  airs,  snatches  from  operas,  concerts  and 
symphonies.  They  were  always  humming  and  singing 
things.  They  came  home  haunted  with  "  The  Last  Rose," 
from  Maria — now  some  air  from  Faust,  Der  Freischiitz, 
or  Tannhauser. 

But  one  air  was  particular  to  Eugen,  who  seemed  to  be 
perfectly  possessed  by  it — that  which  I  had  heard  him 
humming  when  I  first  met  him — the  March  from  Lenore. 
He  whistled  it  and  sang  it ;  played  it  on  violin,  'cello  and 
piano ;  hummed  it  first  thing  in  the  morning  and  last  thing 
at  night;  harped  upon  it  until  in  despair  his  companion 
threw  books  and  music  at  him,  and  he,  dodging  them, 
laughed,  begged  pardon,  was  silent  for  five  minutes,  and 
then  the  March  da  Capo  set  in  a  halting  kind  of  measure 
to  the  ballad. 

By  way  of  a  slight  and  wholesome  variety  there  was 
the  whole  repertory  of  Volksluder,  from 

"  Du,  du,  liegst  mir  im  Herzen  ; 

Du,  du,  liegst  mir  im  Sinn," 
up  to 

"  Madele,  ruck,  ruck,  ruck 
An  meine  griine  Seite." 

Sometimes  they — one  or  both  of  them  with  the  boy — 
might  be  seen  at  the  window  leaning  out,  whistling  or 
talking.  When  doors  banged  and  quick  steps  rushed  up 
or  down  the  stairs  two  steps  at  a  time  I  knew  it  was  Cour- 
voisier.  Friedhelm  Helfen's  movements  were  slower  and 
more  sedate.  I  grew  to  know  his  face  as  well  as  Eugen's, 
and  to  like  it  better  the  more  I  saw  of  -it.  A  quite  young, 
almost  boyish  face,  with  an  inexpressibly  pure,  true,  and 
good  expression  upon  the  mouth  and  in  the  dark  brown 
eyes.  Reticent,  as  most  good  faces  are,  but  a  face  which 
made  you  desire  to  know  the  owner  of  it,  made  you  feel 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  jgy 

that  you  could  trust  him  in  any  trial.  His  face  reminded 
me  in  a  distant  manner  of  two  others,  also  faces  of  musi- 
cians, but  greater  in  their  craft  than  he,  they  being  creators 
and  pioneers,  while  he  was  only  a  disciple,  of  Beethoven 
and  of  the  living  master,  Rubinstein.  A  gentle,  though 
far  from  weak  face,  and  such  a  contrast  in  expression  and 
everything  else  to  that  of  my  musician,  as  to  make  me 
wonder  sometimes  whether  they  had  been  drawn  to  each 
other  from  very  oppositeness  of  disposition  and  character. 
That  they  were  very  great  friends  I  could  not  doubt; 
that  the  leadership  was  on  Courvoisier's  side  was  no  less 
evident.  Eugen's  affection  for  Helfen  seemed  to  have 
something  fatherly  in  it,  while  I  could  see  that  both  joined 
in  an  absorbing  worship  of  the  boy,  who  was  a  very 
Croesus  in  love  if  in  nothing  else.  Sigmund  had,  too,  an 
adorer  in  a  third  musician,  a  violoncellist,  one  of  their 
comrades,  who  apparently  spent  much  of  his  spare  sub- 
stance in  purchasing  presents  of  toys  and  books  and  other 
offerings,  which  he  laid  at  the  shrine  of  Saint  Sigmund, 
with  what  success  I  could  not  tell.  Beyond  this  young 
fellow,  Karl  Linders,  they  had  not  many  visitors.  Young 
men  used  occasionally  to  appear  with  violin-cases  in  their 
hands,  coming  for  lessons,  probably. 

All  these  things  I  saw  without  absolutely  watching  for 
them;  they  made  that  impression  upon  me  which  the 
most  trifling  facts  connected  with  a  person  around  whom 
cling  all  one's  deepest  pleasures  and  deepest  pains  ever 
do  and  must  make.  I  was  glad  to  know  them,  but  at  the 
same  time  they  impressed  the  loneliness  and  aloofness  of 
my  own  life  more  decidedly  upon  me. 

I  remember  one  small  incident  which  at  the  time  it  hap- 
pened struck  home  to  me.  My  windows  were  open;  it 
was  an  October  afternoon,  mild  and  sunny.  The  yellow 
light  shone  with  a  peaceful  warmth  upon  the  afternoon 
quietness  of  the  street.  Suddenly  that  quietness  was  bro- 
ken. The  sound  of  music,  the  peculiar  blatant  noise  of 
trumpets  smote  the  air.  It  came  nearer,  and  with  it  the 
measured  tramp  of  feet.  I  rose  and  went  to  look  out. 
A  Hussar  regiment  was  passing;  before  them  was  borne 
a  soldier's  coffin:  they  carried  a  comrade  to  his  grave. 


jgS  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

The  music  they  played  was  the  "  Funeral  March  for  the 
Death  of  a  Hero,"  from  the  Sinfonia  Eroica.  Muffled, 
slow,  grand  and  mournful,  it  went  wailing  and  throbbing 
by.  The  procession  passed  slowly  on  in  the  October  sun- 
shine, along  the  Schadowstrasse,  turning  off  by  the  Hof- 
garten,  and  so  on  to  the  cemetery.  I  leaned  out  of  the 
window  and  looked  after  it — forgetting  all  outside,  till  just 
as  the  last  of  the  procession  passed  by  my  eyes  fell  upon 
Courvoisier  going  into  his  house,  and  who  presently  en- 
tered the  room.  He  was  unperceived  by  Friedhelm  and 
Sigmund,  who  were  looking  after  the  procession.  The 
child's  face  was  earnest,  almost  solemn — he  had  not  seen 
his  father  come  up.  I  saw  Helfen's  lips  caress  Sigmund's 
loose  black  hair  that  waved  just  beneath  them. 

Then  I  saw  a  figure — only  a  black  shadow  to  my  eyes 
which  were  dazzled  by  the  sun — come  behind  them. 
One  hand  was  laid  upon  Helfen's  shoulder,  another  turn- 
ed the  child's  chin.  What  a  change!  Friedhelm's  grave 
face  smiled:  Sigmund  sprang  aside,  made  a  leap  to  his 
father  who  stooped  to  him,  and  clasping  his  arms  tight 
round  his  neck  was  raised  up  in  his  arms. 

They  were  all  satisfied — all  smiling — all  happy.  I 
turned  away.  That  was  a  home — that  was  a  meeting  of 
three  affections.  What  more  could  they  want?  I  shut 
the  window — shut  it  all  out,  and  myself  with  it  into  the 
cold,  feeling  my  lips  quiver.  It  was  very  fine,  this  life  of 
independence  and  self-support,  but  it  was  dreadfully  lonely. 
The  days  went  on.  Adelaide  was  now  Lady  Le  Mar- 
chant.  She  had  written  to  me  again,  and  warned  me 
once  more  to  be  careful  what  I  was  about.  She  had  said 
that  she  liked  her  life — at  least  she  said  so  in  her  first  two 
or  three  letters,  and  then  there  fell  a  sudden  utter  silence 
about  herself,  which  seemed  to  me  ominous. 

Adelaide  had  always  acted  upon  the  assumption  that 
Sir  Peter  was  a  far  from  strong-minded  individual,  with  a 
certain  hardness  and  cunning  perhaps  in  relation  to  money 
matters,  but  nothing  that  a  clever  wife  with  a  strong 
enough  sense  of  her  own  privileges  could  not  overcome. 

She  said  nothing  to  me  about  herself.  She  told  me 
about  Rome:  who  was  there;  what  they  did  and  looked 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


189 


like;  what  she  wore;  what  compliments  were  paid  to  her 
— that  was  all. 

Stella  told  me  my  letters  were  dull — and  I  dare  say 
they  were — and  that  there  was  no  use  in  her  writing,  be- 
cause nothing  ever  happened  in  Skernford,  which  was 
also  true. 

And  for  Eugen,  we  were  on  exactly  the  same  terms — 
or  rather  no  terms — as  before.  Opposite  neighbors,  and 
as  far  removed  as  if  we  had  lived  at  the  antipodes. 

My  life,  as  time  went  on,  grew  into  a  kind  of  fossilized 
dream,  in  which  I  rose  up  and  lay  down,  practiced  so 
many  hours  a  day,  ate  and  drank  and  took  my  lesson,  and 
it  seemed  as  if  I  had  been  living  so  for  years,  and  should 
continue  to  live  on  so  to  the  end  of  my  days — until  one 
morning  my  eyes  would  not  open  again,  and  for  me  the 
world  would  have  come  to  an  end. 


CHAPTER  II. 

"And  nearer  still  shall  farther  be, 
And  words  shall  plague  and  vex  and  buffet  thee." 

IT  was  December,  close  upon  Christmas.  Winter  at 
last  in  real  earnest.  A  black  frost.  The  earth  bound 
in  fetters  of  iron.  The  land  gray;  the  sky  steel;  the  wind 
a  dagger.  The  trees,  leafless  and  stark,  rattled  their  shriv- 
eled boughs  together  in  that  wind. 

It  met  you  at  corners  and  froze  the  words  out  of  your 
mouth;  it  whistled  a  low,  fiendish,  malignant  whistle  round 
the  houses;  as  vicious  and  little  louder  than  the  buzz  of 
a  mosquito.  It  swept,  thin,  keen  and  cutting,  down  the 
Konigsallee,  and  blew  fine  black  dust  into  one's  face. 

It  cut  up  the  skaters  upon  the  pond  in  the  Neue  Anlage, 
which  was  in  the  centre  of  the  town,  and  comparatively 
sheltered;  but  it  was  in  its  glory  whistling  across  the  flat 
fields  leading  to  the  great  skating- ground  of  Elberthal  in 
general — the  Schwanenspiegel  at  the  Grafenbergerdahl. 

The  Grafenberg  was  a  low  chain  of  what,  for  want  of  a 
better  name,  may  be  called  hills,  lying  to  the  north  of  El- 
berthal. The  country  all  around  this  unfortunate  apology 
for  a  range  of  hills  was,  if  possible,  flatter  than  ever. 
The  Grafenbergerdahl  was,  properly,  no  "dale"  at  all, 
but  a  broad  plain  of  meadows,  with  the  railway  cutting 
them  at  one  point;  then  diverging  and  running  on  under 
the  Grafenberg. 

One  vast  meadow  which  lay,  if  possible,  a  trifle  lower 
than  the  rest,  was  flooded  regularly  by  the  autumn  rains, 
but  not  deeply.  It  was  frozen  over  now,  and  formed  a 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


191 


model  skating  place,  and  so,  apparently,  thought  the  towns- 
people, for  they  came  out,  singly  or  in  bodies,  and  from 
nine  in  the  morning  till  dusk  the  place  was  crowded,  and 
the  merry  music  of  the  iron  on  the  ice  ceased  not  for  a 
second. 

I  discovered  this  place  of  resort  by  accident  one  day 
when  I  was  taking  a  constitutional,  and  found  myself 
upon  the  borders  of  the  great  frozen  mere  covered  with 
skaters.  I  stood  looking  at  them,  and  my  blood  warmed 
at  the  sight.  If  there  were  one  thing — one  accomplish- 
ment upon  which  I  prided  myself,  it  was  this  very  one — 
skating. 

In  a  drawing-room  I  might  feel  awkward — confused 
amongst  clever  people,  bashful  amongst  accomplished 
ones;  shy  about  music  and  painting,  diffident  as  to  my 
voice,  and  deprecatory  in  spirit  as  to  the  etiquette  to  be 
observed  at  a  dinner-party.  Give  me  my  skates  and  put 
me  on  a  sheet  of  ice,  and  I  was  at  home. 

As  I  paused  and  watched  the  skaters,  it  struck  me  that 
there  was  no  reason  at  all  why  I  should  deny  myself  tha. 
seasonable  enjoyment.  I  had  my  skates,  and  the  mere 
was  large  enough  to  hold  me  as  well  as  the  others — in- 
deed, I  saw  in  the  distance  great  tracts  of  virgin  ice  to 
which  no  skater  seemed  yet  to  have  reached. 

I  went  home,  and  on  the  following  afternoon  carried 
out  my  resolution ;  though  it  was  after  three  o'clock  be- 
fore I  could  set  out. 

A  long,  bleak  way.  First  up  the  merry  Jagerhofstrasse, 
then  through  the  Malkasten  garden,  up  a  narrow  lane, 
then  out  upon  the  open,  bleak  road,  with  that  bitter  wind 
going  ping-ping  at  one's  ears  and  upon  one's  cheek. 
Through  a  big  gate-way,  and  a  court-yard  pertaining  to  an 
orphan  asylum — along  a  lane  bordered  with  apple-trees, 
through  a  rustic  arch,  and,  hurrah !  the  field  was  before 
me — not  so  thickly  covered  as  yesterday,  for  it  was  getting 
late,  and  the  Elberthalers  did  not  seem  to  understand  the 
joy  of  careering  over  the  black  ice  by  moonlight,  in  the 
night- wind.  It  was,  however,  as  yet  far  from  dark,  and 
the  moon  was  rising  in  silver  yonder,  in  a  sky  of  a  pale 
but  clear  blue. 


I92  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

I  quickly  put  on  my  skates — stumbled  to  the  edge,  and 
set  off.  I  took  a  few  turns,  circling  amongst  the  people — 
then,  seeing  several  turn  to  look  at  me,  I  fixed  my  eyes 
upon  a  distant  clump  of  reeds  rising  from  the  ice,  and  re- 
solved to  make  it  my  goal.  I  could  only  just  see  it,  even 
with  my  long-sighted  eyes,  but  struck  out  for  it  bravely. 
Past  group  after  group  of  the  skaters  who  turned  to  look 
at  my  scarlet  shawl  as  it  flashed  past.  I  glanced  at  them 
and  skimmed  smoothly  on,  till  I  came  to  the  outside  circle 
where  there  was  a  skater  all  alone,  his  hands  thrust  deep 
into  his  great-coat  pockets,  the  collar  of  the  same  turned 
high  about  his  ears,  and  the  inevitable  little  gray  cloth 
Studentenhut  crowning  the  luxuriance  of  waving  dark 
hair.  He  was  gliding  round  in  complicated  figures  and 
circles,  doing  the  outside  edge  for  his  own  solitary  gratifi- 
cation, so  far  as  I  could  see ;  active,  graceful,  and  muscu- 
lar, with  practiced  ease  and  assured  strength  in  every 
limb.  It  needed  no  second  glance  on  my  part  to  assure 
me  who  he  was — even  if  the  dark  bright  eyes  had  not 
been  caught  by  the  flash  of  my  cloak,  and  gravely  raised 
for  a  moment  as  I  flew  by.  I  dashed  on,  breasting  the 
wind.  To  reach  the  bunch  of  reeds  seemed  more  than 
ever  desirable  now.  I  would  make  it  my  sole  companion 
until  it  was  time  to  go  away.  At  least  he  had  seen  me, 
and  I  was  safe  from  any  contretemps — he  would  avoid  me 
as  strenuously  as  I  avoided  him.  But  the  first  fresh  lust 
after  pleasure  was  gone.  Just  one  moment's  glance  into 
a  face  had  had  the  power  to  alter  everything  so  much.  I 
skated  on,  as  fast,  as  surely  as  ever,  but, 

"A  joy  has  taken  flight.  " 

The  pleasant  sensation  of  solitude,  which  I  could  so  easily 
have  felt  amongst  a  thousand  people  had  he  not  been 
counted  amongst  them,  was  gone.  The  roll  of  my  skates 
upon  the  ice  had  lost  its  music  for  me :  the  wind  felt  colder 
— I  sadder.  At  least  I  thought  so.  Should  I  go  away 
again  now  that  this  disturbing  element  had  appeared  upon 
the  scene  ?  No,  no,  no,  said  something  eagerly  within 
me,  and  I  bit  my  lip,  and  choked  back  a  kind  of  sob  of 
disgust  as  I  realized  that  despite  my  gloomy  reflections 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


193 


my  heart  was  beating  a  high,  rapid  march  of — joy!  as  I 
skimmed,  all  alone,  far  away  from  the  crowd,  amongst  the 
dismal  withered  reeds,  and  round  the  little  islets  of  stiffened 
grass  and  rushes,  which  were  frozen  upright  in  their  places. 

The  daylight  faded,  and  the  moon  rose.  The  people 
were  going  away.  The  distant  buzz  of  laughter  had  grown 
silent.  I  could  dimly  discern  some  few  groups,  but  very 
few,  still  left,  and  one  or  two  solitary  figures.  Even  my 
preternatural  eagerness  could  not  discern  who  they  were. 
The  darkness,  the  long  walk  home,  the  Probe  at  seven, 
which  I  should  be  too  tired  to  attend,  all  had  quite  slipped 
from  my  mind  :  it  was  possible  that  amongst  those  figures 
which  I  still  dimly  saw,  was  yet  remaining  that  of  Cour- 
voisier,  and  surely  there  was  no  harm  in  my  staying  here. 

I  struck  out  in  another  direction,  and  flew  on  in  the 
keen  air ;  the  frosty  moon  shedding  a  weird  light  upon  the 
black  ice :  I  saw  the  railway  lines,  polished,  gleaming  too 
in  the  light :  the  belt  of  dark  firs  to  my  right :  the  red 
sand  soil  frozen  hard  and  silvered  over  with  frost.  Flat 
and  tame,  but  still  beautiful.  I  felt  a  kind  of  rejoicing  in 
it :  I  felt  it  home.  I  was  probably  the  first  person  who 
had  been  there  since  the  freezing  of  the  mere,  thought  I, 
and  that  idea  was  soon  converted  to  a  certainty  in  my 
mind,  for  in  a  second  my  rapid  career  was  interrupted. 
At  the  farthest  point  from  help  or  human  presence  the  ice 
gave  way  with  a  crash,  and  I  shrieked  aloud  at  the  shock 
of  the  bitter  water.  Oh,  how  cold  it  was!  how  piercing, 
frightful,  numbing!  It  was  not  deep — scarcely  above  my 
knees,  but  the  difficulty  was  how  to  get  out.  Put  my 
hand  where  I  would  the  ice  gave  way.  I  could  only 
plunge  in  the  icy  water,  feeling  the  sodden  grass  under  my 
feet.  What  sort  of  things  might  there  not  be  in  that 
water  ?  A  cold  shudder,  worse  than  any  ice,  shot  through 
me  at  the  idea  of  newts  and  rats  and  water-serpents,  ab- 
surd though  it  was.  I  screamed  again  in  desperation,  and 
tried  to  haul  myself  out  by  catching  at  the  rushes.  They 
were  rotten  with  the  frost  and  gave  way  in  my  hand.  I 
made  a  frantic  effort  at  the  ice  again ;  stumbled  and  fell 
on  my  knees  in  the  water.  I  was  wet  all  over  now,  and 
I  gasped.  My  limbs  ached  agonizingly  with  the  cold.  I 


194 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


should  be,  if  not  drowned,  yet  benumbed,  frozen  to  death 
here  alone  in  the  great  mere,  amongst  the  frozen  reeds  and 
under  the  steely  sky. 

I  was  pausing,  standing  still,  and  rapidly  becoming  al- 
most too  benumbed  to  think  or  hold  myself  up,  when  I 
heard  the  sound  of  skates  and  the  weird  measure  of  the 
Lenore  March  again.  I  held  my  breath :  I  desired  in- 
tensely to  call  out,  shriek  aloud  for  help,  but  I  could  not. 
Not  a  word  would  come. 

"  I  did  hear  some  one,"  he  muttered,  and  then  in  the 
moonlight  he  came  skating  past,  saw  me,  and  stopped. 

"  Sie,  Frdulein  !  "  he  began,  quickly,  and  then  altering 
his  tone.  "  The  ice  has  broken.  Let  me  help  you." 

"  Don't  come  too  near ;  the  ice  is  very  thin — it  doesn't 
hold  at  all,"  I  chattered,  scarcely  able  to  get  the  words 
out. 

"  You  are  cold  ?  "  he  asked,  and  smiled.  I  felt  the 
smile  cruel;  and  realized  that  I  probably  looked  rather 
ludicrous. 

"  Cold.'"  I  repeated,  with  an  irrepressible  short  sob. 

He  knelt  down  upon  the  ice  at  about  a  yard's  distance 
from  me. 

"  Here  it  is  strong,"  said  he,  holding  out  his  arms. 
"  Lean  this  way,  mein  Frattlein,  and  I  will  lift  you  out." 

"  Oh  no  !     You  will  certainly  fall  in  yourself." 

"  Do  as  I  tell  you,"  he  said,  imperatively,  and  I  obeyed, 
leaning  a  little  forward.  He  took  me  round  the  waist, 
lifted  me  quietly  out  of  the  water,  and  placed  me  upon 
the  ice  at  a  discreet  distance  from  the  hole  in  which  I  had 
been  stuck,  then  rose  himself,  apparently  undisturbed  by 
the  effort. 

Miserable,  degraded  object  that  I  felt !  My  clothes 
clinging  round  me;  icy  cold,  shivering  from  head  to  foot; 
so  aching  with  cold  that  I  could  no  longer  stand.  As  he 
opened  his  mouth  to  say  something  about  its  being  "hap- 
pily accomplished,"  I  sank  upon  my  knees  at  his  feet. 
My  strength  had  deserted  me ;  I  could  no  longer  support 
myself. 

"  Frozen  !  "  he  remarked  to  himself,  as  he  stooped  and 
half  raised  me.  "  I  see  what  must  be  done.  Let  me  take 
off  your  skates — sonst  geht's  nicht" 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  !95 

I  sat  down  upon  the  ice,  half  hysterical,  partly  from  the 
sense  of  the  degrading,  ludicrous  plight  I  was  in,  partly 
from  intense  yet  painful  delight  at  being  thus  once  more 
with  him,  seeing  some  recognition  in  his  eyes  again,  and 
hearing  some  cordiality  in  his  voice. 

He  unfastened  my  skates  deftly  and  quickly,  slung  them 
over  his  arm,  and  helped  me  up  again.  I  essayed  feebly 
to  walk,  but  my  limbs  were  numb  with  cold.  I  could  not 
put  one  foot  before  the  other,  but  could  only  cling  to  his 
arm  in  silence. 

"  So  ! "  said  he,  with  a  little  laugh.  "  We  are  all  alone 
here  !  A  fine  time  for  a  moonlight  skating." 

"Ah  !  yes,"  said  I  wearily,  "  but  I  can't  move." 

"You  need  not,"  said  he.  "  I  am  going  to  carry  you 
away  in  spite  of  yourself,  like  a  popular  preacher." 

He  put  his  arm  round  my  waist  and  bade  me  hold  fast 
to  his  shoulder.  I  obeyed,  and  directly  found  myself 
carried  along  in  a  swift,  delightful  movement,  which  seemed 
to  my  drowsy,  deadened  senses,  quick  as  the  nimble  air 
smooth  as  a  swallow's  flight.  He  was  a  consummate 
master  in  the  art  of  skating — that  was  evident.  A  strong, 
unfailing  arm  held  me  fast.  I  felt  no  sense  of  danger,  no 
fear  lest  he  should  fall  or  stumble;  no  such  idea  entered 
my  head. 

We  had  far  to  go — from  one  end  of  the  great  Schwan- 
enspiegel  to  the  other.  Despite  the  rapid  motion,  numb- 
ness overcame  me;  my  eyes  closed,  my  head  sank  upon 
my  hands,  which  were  clasped  over  his  shoulder.  A  sob 
rose  to  my  throat.  In  the  midst  of  the  torpor  that  was 
stealing  over  me,  there  shot  every  now  and  then  a  shiver 
of  ecstasy  so  keen  as  to  almost  terrify  me.  But  then  even 
that  died  away.  Everything  seemed  to  whirl  round  me — 
the  meadows  and  trees,  the  stiff  rushes  and  the  great  black 
sheet  of  ice,  and  the  white  moon  in  the  inky  heavens  be- 
came only  a  confused  dream.  Was  it  sleep  or  faintness, 
or  coma  ?  What  was  it  that  seemed  to  make  my  senses 
as  dull  as  my  limbs,  and  as  heavy  ?  I  scarcely  felt  the 
movement,  as  he  lifted  me  from  the  ice  to  the  ground. 
His  shout  did  not  waken  me,  though  he  sent  the  full  power 
of  his  voice  ringing  out  toward  the  pile  of  buildings  to 
our  left. 


,96  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

With  the  last  echo  of  his  voice  I  lost  consciousness  en- 
tirely; all  failed  and  faded,  and  then  vanished  before  me, 
until  I  opened  my  eyes  again  feebly,  and  found  myself  in 
a  great  stony-looking  room,  before  a  big  black  stove,  the 
door  of  which  was  thrown  open.  I  was  lying  upon  a  sofa, 
and  a  woman  was  bending  over  me.  At  the  foot  of  the 
sofa,  leaning  against  the  wall,  was  Courvoisier,  looking 
down  at  me,  his  arms  folded,  his  face  pensive. 

"  Oh  dear ! "  cried  I,  starting  up.  "  What  is  the  matter  ? 
I  must  go  home." 

"  You  shall — when  you  can,"  said  Courvoisier,  smiling 
as  he  had  smiled  when  I  first  knew  him,  before  all  these 
miserable  misunderstandings  had  come  between  us. 

My  apprehensions  were  stilled.  It  did  me  good,  warmed 
me,  sent  the  tears  trembling  to  my  eyes,  when  I  found 
that  his  voice  had  not  resumed  the  old  accent  of  ice,  nor 
his  eyes  that  cool,  unrecognizing  stare  which  had  frozen 
me  so  many  a  time  in  the  last  few  weeks. 

"  Trinken  Sie  'mat,  Fraulein"  said  the  woman,  holding 
a  glass  to  my  lips:  it  held  hot  spirits  and  water,  which 
smoked. 

"Bah!"  replied  I,  gratefully,  and  turning  away. 

"  Nie,  nie!"  she  repeated.  "You  must  drink  just  a 
Schndppschen,  Fraulein." 

I  pushed  it  away  with  some  disgust.  Courvoisier  took 
it  from  her  hand  and  held  it  to  me. 

"  Don't  be  so  foolish  and  childish.  Think  of  your  voice 
after  this,"  said  he,  smiling  kindly;  and  I,  with  an  odd 
sensation,  choked  down  my  tears  and  drank  it.  It  was 
bad — despite  my  desire  to  please,  I  found  it  very  bad. 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  said  he,  with  a  sympathetic  look,  as  I 
made  a  horrible,  face  after  drinking  it,  and  he  took  the 
glass.  "And  now  this  woman  will  lend  you  some  dry 
things.  Shall  I  go  straight  to  Elberthal  and  send  a 
droschke  here  for  you,  or  will  you  try  to  walk  home  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  will  walk.  I  am  sure  it  would  be  the  best — if — 
do  you  think  it  would  ?  " 

"  Do  you  feel  equal  to  it?  is  the  question,"  he  answered, 
and  I  was  surprised  to  see  that  though  I  was  looking  hard 
at  him  he  did  not  look  at  me,  but  only  into  the  glass  he 
held. 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


197 


"Yes,"  said  I.  "And  they  say  that  people  who  have 
been  nearly  drowned  should  always  walk ;  it  does  them 
good." 

"In  that  case  then,"  said  he,  repressing  a  smile,  "I 
should  say  it  would  be  better  for  you  to  try.  But  pray 
make  haste  and  get  your  wet  things  off,  or  you  will  come 
to  serious  harm." 

"  I  will  be  as  quick  as  ever  I  can." 

"  No  hurry,"  he  replied,  sitting  down,  and  pulling  one 
of  the  woman's  children  towards  him.  "Come,  mein 
Junge,  tell  me  how  old  you  are  ?  " 

I  followed  the  woman  to  an  inner  room,  where  she  di- 
vested me  of  my  dripping  things,  and  attired  me  in  a  cos- 
tume consisting  of  a  short  full  brown  petticoat,  a  blue 
woolen  jacket,  thick  blue  knitted  stockings,  and  a  pair  of 
wide  low  shoes,  which  habiliments  constituted  the  uniform 
of  the  orphan  asylum  of  which  she  was  matron,  and  be- 
longed to  her  niece. 

She  expatiated  upon  the  warmth  of  the  dress,  and  did 
not  produce  any  outer  wrap  or  shawl,  and  I,  only  anxious 
to  go,  said  nothing,  but  twisted  up  my  loose  hair,  and 
went  back  into  the  large  stony  room  before  spoken  of, 
from  which  a  great  noise  had  been  proceeding  for  some 
time. 

I  stood  in  the  door-way  and  saw  Eugen  surrounded  by 
other  children,  in  addition  to  the  one  he  had  first  called 
to  him.  There  were  likewise  two  dogs,  and  they — the 
children,  the  dogs,  and  Herr  Concertmeister  Courvoisier 
most  of  all — were  making  as  much  noise  as  facy  possibly 
could.  I  paused  for  a  moment  to  have  the  small  gratifica- 
tion of  watching  the  scene.  One  child  on  his  knee,  and 
one  on  his  shoulder  pulling  his  hair,  which  was  all  ruffled  and 
on  end,  a  laugh  upon  his  face,  a  dancing  light  in  his  eyes, 
as  if  he  felt  happy  and  at  home  amongst  all  the  little  flaxen 
"heads. 

Could  he  be  the  same  man  who  had  behaved  so  coldly 
to  me?  My  heart  went  out  to  him  in  this  kinder  moment. 
Why  was  he  so  genial  with  those  children  and  so  harsh  to 
me,  who  was  little  better  than  a  child  myself? 

His  eye  fell  upon  me  as  he  held  a  shouting  and  kicking 


198 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


child  high  in  the  air,  and  his  own  face  laughed  all  over  in 
mirth  and  enjoyment. 

"Come  here,  Miss  Wedderburn;  this  is  Hans,  there  is 
Fritz,  and  here  is  Franz — a  jolly  trio,  aren't  they?" 

He  put  the  child  into  his  mother's  arms,  who  regarded 
him  with  an  eye  of  approval,  and  told  him  that  it  was  not 
every  one  who  knew  how  to  ingratiate  himself  with  her 
children,  who  were  uncommonly  spirited. 

"Ready?"  he  asked,  surveying  me  and  my  costume, 
and  laughing.  "  Don't  you  feel  a  stranger  in  these  gar- 
ments ?  " 

"No!     Why?" 

"I  should  have  said  silk  and  lace  and  velvet,  or  fine 
muslins  and  embroideries,  were  more  in  your  style." 

"  You  are  quite  mistaken.  I  was  just  thinking  how  ad- 
mirably this  costume  suits  me,  and  that  I  should  do  well 
to  adopt  it  permanently." 

"  Perhaps  there  was  a  mirror  in  the  inner  room,"  he 
suggested. 

"A  mirror!     Why?" 

"Then  your  idea  would  quite  be  accounted  for. 
Young  ladies  must  of  course  wish  to  wear  that  which  be- 
comes them." 

"Very  becoming!"  I  sneered,  grandly. 

"Very,"  he  replied,  emphatically.  "It  makes  me  wish 
to  be  an  oq;>han." 

"  Ah,  inein  Herr"  said  the  woman,  reproachfully,  for  he 
had  spoken  German.  "  Don't  jest  about  that.  '  If  you 
have  parents — " 

"No,  I  haven't,"  he  interposed,  hastily. 

"  Or  children  either  ?  " 

"  I  should  not  else  have  understood  yours  so  well,"  he 
laughed.  "Come,  my — Miss  Wedderburn,  if  you  are 
ready." 

After  arranging  with  the  woman  that  she  should  dry  my" 
things  and  return  them,  receiving  her  own  in  exchange,  we 
left  the  house. 

It  was  quite  moonlight  now;  the  last  faint  streak  of  twi- 
light had  disappeared.  The  way  that  we  must  traverse 
to  reach  the  town  stretched  before  us,  long,  straight,  and 
flat. 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  Ig9 

"  Where  is  your  shawl?  "  he  asked,  suddenly. 

"I  left  it;  it  was  wet  through." 

Before  I  knew  what  he  was  doing,  he  had  stripped  off 
his  heavy  overcoat,  and  I  felt  its  warmth  and  thickness 
about  my  shoulders. 

"Oh,  don't!'''  I  cried,  in  great  distress,  as  I  strove  to 
remove  it  again,  and  looked  imploringly  into  his  face. 
"Don't  do  that.  You  will  get  cold;  you  will — " 

"  Get  cold!'1''  he  laughed,  as  if  much  amused,  as  he  drew 
the  coat  around  me  and  fastened  it,  making  no  more  ado 
of  my  resisting  hands  than  if  they  had  been  bits  of  straw. 

"So!"  said  he,  pushing  one  of  my  arms  through  the 
sleeve.  "  Now,"  as  he  still  held  it  fastened  together,  and 
looked  half-laughingly  at  me,  "do  you  intend  to  keep  it 
on  or  not?" 

"I  suppose  I  must." 

"  I  call  that  gratitude.  Take  my  arm — so !  You  are 
weak  yet." 

We  walked  on  in  silence  for  some  time.  I  was  happy; 
for  the  first  time  since  the  night  I  had  heard  Lohengrin  I 
was  happy  and  at  rest.  True,  no  forgiveness  had  been 
asked  or  extended;  but  he  had  ceased  to  behave  as  if  I 
were  not  forgiven. 

"  Am  I  not  going  too  fast  ?  "  he  inquired. 

«N— no." 

"Yes,  I  am,  I  see.     We  will  moderate  the  pace  a  little." 

We  walked  more  slowly.  Physically  I  was  inexpressibly 
weary.  The  reaction  after  my  drenching  had  set  in ;  I  felt 
a  languor  which  amounted  to  pain,  and  an  aching  and 
weakness  in  every  limb.  I  tried  to  regret  the  event,  but 
could  not;  tried  to  wish  it  were  not  such  a  long  walk  to 
Elberthal,  and  found  myself  perversely  regretting  that  it 
was  such  a  short  one. 

At  length  the  lights  of  the  town  came  in  sight.  I 
heaved  a  deep  sigh.  Soon  it  would  be  over — "  the  glory 
and  the  dream." 

"I  think  we  are  exactly  on  the  way  to  your  house, 
nicht  wahr  ?  "  said  he. 

"  Yes;  and  to  yours  since  we  are  opposite  neighbors." 

"  Yes." 


200 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


"You  are  not  as  lonely  as  I  am,  though;  you  have 
companions." 

"  I — oh — Friedhelm  ;  yes." 

"And — your  little  boy." 

"  Sigmund  also,"  was  all  he  said. 

But  "Aitch  Sigmund"  may  express  much  more  in  Ger- 
man than  in  English.  It  did  so  then. 

"  And  you  ?  "  he  added. 

"  I  am  alone,"  said  I. 

I  did  not  mean  to  be  foolishly  sentimental.  The  sigh 
that  followed  my  words  was  involuntary. 

"  S0  you  are.     But  I  suppose  you  like  it  ?  " 

"  tike  it !     What  can  make"  you  think  so  ?  " 

"  Well,  at  least  you  have  good  friends." 

"Have  I?  Oh  yes,  of  course!"  said  I,  thinking  of 
Von  Francius. 

"Do  you  get  on  with  your  music?"  he  next  inquired. 

"  I  hope  so.  I — do  you  think  it  strange  that  I  should 
live  there  all  alone  ?  "  I  asked,  tormented  with  a  desire  to 
know  what  he  did  think  of  me,  and  crassly  ready  to  burst 
into  explanations  on  the  least  provocation.  I  was  des- 
tined to  be  undeceived. 

"I  have  not  thought  about  it  at  all;  it  is  not  my  busi- 
ness." 

Snub  number  one.  He  had  spoken  quickly,  as  if  to 
clear  himself  as  much  as  possible  from  any  semblance  of 
interest  in  me. 

I  went  on,  rashly  plunging  into  further  intricacies  of 
conversation : 

"  It  is  curious  that  you  and  I  should  not  only  live  near 
to  each  other,  but  actually  have  the  same  profession  at 
last." 

"How?" 

Snub  number  two.     But  I  persevered. 

"  Music.     Your  profession  is  music,  and  mine  will  be." 

"  I  do  not  see  the  resemblance.  There  is  little  point 
of  likeness  between  a  young  lady  who  is  in  training  for  a 
Priina  Donna  and  an  obscure  Musiker,  who  contributes 
his  share  of  shakes  and  runs  to  the  symphony." 

"/in  training  for  a  Prima  Donna  /  How  can  you  say 
so?" 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  201 

"  Do  we  not  all  know  the  forte  of  Herr  von  Francius  ? 
And — excuse  me — are  not  your  windows  opposite  to 
ours,  and  open  as  a  rule  ?  Can  I  not  hear  the  music  you 
practice,  and  shall  I  not  believe  my  own  ears  ?  " 

"  I  am  sure  your  own  ears  do  not  tell  you  that  a  future 
Prima  Donna  lives  opposite  to  you,"  said  I,  feeling  most 
insanely  and  unreasonably  hurt  and  cut  up  at  the  idea. 

"Will  you  tell  me  that  you  are  not  studying  for  the 
stage?" 

"  I  never  said  I  was  not.  I  said  I  was  not  a  future 
Prima  Donna.  My  voice  is  not  half  good  enough.  I 
am  not  clever  enough,  either." 

He  laughed. 

"As  if  voice  or  cleverness  had  anything  to  do  with  it. 
Personal  appearance  and  friends  at  Court  are  the  chief 
things.  I  have  known  Prime  Donne — seen  them,  I  mean — 
and  from  my  place  below  the  foot-lights  I  have  had  the 
impertinence  to  judge  them  upon  their  own  merits.  Pro- 
vided they  were  handsome,  impudent,  and  unscrupulous 
enough,  their  public  seemed  gladly  to  dispense  with  art, 
cultivation,  or  genius  in  their  performances  and  concep- 
tions." 

"And  you  think  that  I  am,  or  shall  be  in  time,  hand- 
some, impudent,  and  unscrupulous  enough,"  said  I,  in  a 
low  choked  tone. 

My  fleeting  joy  was  being  thrust  back  by  hands  most 
ruthless.  Unmixed  satisfaction  for  even  the  brief  space 
of  an  hour  or  so  was  not  to  be  included  in  my  lot. 

"  O  bewahre  !"  said  he,  with  a  little  laugh,  that  chilled 
me  still  further.  "  I  think  no  such  thing.  The  beauty  is 
there,  mein  Friiulein — pardon  me  for  saying  so — " 

Indeed,  I  was  well  able  to  pardon  it.  Had  he  been 
informing  his  grandmother  that  there  were  the  remains 
of  a  handsome  woman  to  be  traced  in  her,  he  could  not 
have  spoken  more  unenthusiastically. 

"  The  beauty  is  there.  The  rest  as  I  said,  when  one  has 
friends,  these  things  are  arranged  for  one." 

"  But  I  have  no  friends." 

"  No,"  with  again  that  dry  little  laugh.  "  Perhaps  they 
will  be  provided  at  the  proper  time,  as  Elijah  was  fed  by 


202  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

the  ravens.  Some  fine  night — who  knows — I  may  sit 
with  my  violin  in  the  orchestra  at  your  benefit,  and  one 
of  the  bouquets  with  which  you  are  smothered  may  fall 
at  my  feet  and  bring  me  aus  der  Fuge.  When  that  hap- 
pens, will  you  forgive  me  if  I  break  a  rose  from  the 
bouquet  before  I  toss  it  on  to  the  feet  of  its  rightful 
owner  ?  I  promise  that  I  will  seek  for  no  note,  nor  spy 
out  any  ring  or  bracelet.  I  will  only  keep  the  rose  in  re- 
membrance of  the  night  when  I  skated  with  you  across 
the  Schwanenspiegel,  and  prophesied  unto  you  the  future. 
It  will  be  a  kind  of  '  I  told  you  so,'  on  my  part." 

Mock  sentiment,  mock  respect,  mock  admiration ;  a 
sneer  in  the  voice,  a  dry  sarcasm  in  the  words.  What 
was  I  to  think?  Why  did  he  veer  round  in  this  way, 
and  from  protecting  kindness  return  to  a  raillery  which 
was  more  cruel  than  his  silence  ?  My  blood  rose,  though, 
at  the  mockingness  of  his  tone. 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  said  I,  coldly.  "  I 
am  studying  operatic  music.  If  I  have  any  success  in 
that  line,  1  shall  devote  myself  to  it.  What  is  there 
wrong  in  it?  The  person  who  has  her  living  to  gain 
must  use  the  talents  that  have  been  given  her.  My  talent 
is  my  voice ;  it  is  the  only  thing  I  have — except,  perhaps, 
some  capacity  to  love — those — who  are  kind  to  me.  I 
can  do  that,  thank  God !  Beyond  that  I  have  nothing, 
and  I  did  not  make  myself." 

"A  capacity  to  love  those  who  are  kind  to  you,"  he 
said,  hastily.  "And  do  you  love  all  who  are  kind  to 
you?" 

"  Yes,"  said  I,  stoutly,  though  I  felt  my  face  burning. 

"And  hate  them  that  despitefully  use  you?" 

"  Naturally,"  I  said,  with  a  somewhat  unsteady  laugh. 

A  rush  of  my  ruling  feeling — propriety  and  decent 
reserve — tied  my  tongue,  and  I  could  not  say,  "  Not  all — 
not  always." 

He,  however,  snapped,  as  it  were,  at  my  remark,  or 
admission,  and  chose  to  take  it  as  if  it  were  in  the  deepest 
earnest;  for  he  said,  quickly,  decisively,  and,  as  I  thought 
with  a  kind  of  exultation : 

"  Ah,  then  /  will  be  disagreeable  to  you." 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


203 


This  remark,  and  the  tone  in  which  it  was  uttered, 
came  upon  me  with  a  shock  which  I  cannot  express.  He 
would  be  disagreeable  to  me  because  I  hated  those  who 
were  disagreeable  to  me,  ergo,  he  wished  me  to  hate  him. 
But  why?  What  was  the  meaning  of  the  whole  extra- 
ordinary proceeding? 

"Why?"  I  asked  mechanically,  and  asked  nothing 
more. 

"  Because  then  you  will  hate  me,  unlesss  you  have  the 
good  sense  to  do  so  already." 

"  Why  ?     What  effect  will  my  hatred  have  upon  you  ?  " 

"None.  Not  a  jot.  Gar  keine.  But  I  wish  you  to 
hate  me,  nevertheless." 

"So  you  have  begun  to  be  disagreeable  to  me  by 
pulling  me  out  of  the  water,  lending  me  your  coat,  and 
giving  me  your  arm  all  along  this  hard,  lonely  road," 
said  I,  composedly. 

He  laughed. 

"  That  was  before  I  knew  of  your  peculiarity.  From 
to-morrow  morning  on  I  shall  begin.  I  will  make  you 
hate  me.  I  shall  be  glad  if  you  hate  me." 

I  said  nothing.  My  head  felt  bewildered;  my  under- 
standing benumbed.  I  was  conscious  that  I  was  very 
weary — conscious  that  I  should  like  to  cry,  so  bitter  was 
my  disappointment. 

As  we  came  within  the  town,  I  said: 

"  I  am  very  sorry,  Herr  Courvoisier,  to  have  given  you 
so  much  trouble." 

"That  means  that  I  am  to  put  you  into  a  cab  and  re- 
lieve you  of  my  company." 

"It  does  not"  I  ejaculated,  passionately,  jerking  my 
hand  from  his  arm.  "How  can  you  say  so?  How  dare 
you  say  so?" 

"  You  might  meet  some  of  your  friends,  you  know." 

"And  I  tell  you  I  have  no  friends  except  Herr  von 
Francius,  and  I  am  not  accountable  to  him  for  my 
actions." 

"We  shall  soon  be  at  your  house  now." 

"  Herr  Courvoisier,  have  you  forgiven  me  ?  " 

"  Forgiven  you  what  ?  " 

"  My  rudeness  to  you  once." 


204  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

"Ah,  mein  Frdulein,"  said  he,  shrugging  his  shoulders 
a  little  and  smiling  slightly,  "  you  are  under  a  delusion 
about  that  circumstance.  How  can  I  forgive  that  which 
I  never  resented  ?  " 

This  was  putting  the  matter  in  a  new,  and  for  me,  a 
humbling  light. 

"  Never  resented ! "  I  murmured  confusedly. 

"Never.  Why  should  I  resent  it?  I  forgot  myself, 
nicht  wahr!  and  you  showed  me  at  one  and  the  same  time 
my  proper  place  and  your  own  excellent  good  sense.  You 
did  not  wish  to  know  me,  and  I  did  not  resent  it.  I  had 
no  right  to  resent  it." 

"Excuse  me,"  said  I,  my  voice  vibrating  against  my 
will;  "you  are  wrong  there,  and  either  you  are  purposely 
saying  what  is  not  true,  or  you  have  not  the  feelings  of  a 
gentleman."  His  arm  sprang  a  little  aside  as  I  went  on, 
amazed  at  my  own  boldness.  "  I  did  not  show  you  your 
'  proper  place.'  I  did  not  show  my  own  good  sense.  I 
showed  my  ignorance,  vanity,  and  surprise.  If  you  do 
not  know  that,  you  are  not  what  I  take  you  for — a  gentle- 
man." 

"Perhaps  not," said  he,  after  a  pause.  "You  certainly 
did  not  take  me  for  one  then.  Why  should  I  be  a  gentle- 
man ?  What  makes  you  suppose  I  am  one  ?  " 

Questions  which,  however  satisfactorily  I  might  answer 
them  to  myself,  I  could  not  well  reply  to  in  words.  I  felt 
that  I  had  rushed  upon  a  topic  which  could  not  be  ex- 
plained, since  he  would  not  own  himself  offended.  I  had 
made  a  fool  of  myself  and  gained  nothing  by  it.  While  I 
was  racking  my  brain  for  some  satisfactory  closing  remark, 
we  turned  a  corner  and  came  into  the  Wehrhahn.  A 
clock  struck  seven. 

"Gott  irn  Himmel!"  he  exclaimed.  "Seven  o'clock! 
The  opera — da  gcht's  schon  an  /  Excuse  me,  Fraulein,  I 
must  go.  Ah,  here  is  your  house." 

He  took  the  coat  gently  from  my  shoulders,  wished  me 
gute  Hesserung,  and  ringing  the  bell,  made  me  a  profound 
bow,  and  either  not  noticing  or  not  choosing  to  notice  the 
hand  which  I  stretched  out  towards  him,  strode  off  hastily 
towards  the  theatre,  leaving  me  cold,  sick,  and  miserable, 
to  digest  my  humble-pie  with  what  appetite  I  might. 


CHAPTER  III. 

GUI  BONO  ? 

/CHRISTMAS  morning.  And  how  cheerfully  I  spent 
\^  it !  I  tried  first  of  all  to  forget  that  it  was  Christmas, 
and  only  succeeded  in  impressing  the  fact  more  forcibly 
and  vividly  upon  my  mind,  and  with  it  others ;  the  fact  that 
I  was  alone  especially  predominating.  And  a  German 
Christmas  is  not  the  kind  of  thing  to  let  a  lonely  person 
forget  his  loneliness  in ;  its  very  bustle  and  union  serves  to 
emphasize  their  solitude  to  solitary  people. 

I  had  seen  such  quantities  of  Christmas-trees  go  past 
the  day  before.  One  to  every  house  in  the  neighborhood. 
One  had  even  come  here,  and  the  widow  of  the  piano- 
tuner  had  hung  it  with  lights  and  invited  some  children  to 
make  merry  for  the  feast  of  Weihnachten  Abend. 

Every  one  had  a  present  except  me.  Every  one  had 
some  one  with  whom  to  spend  their  Christmas — except 
me.  A  little  tiny  Christmas-tree  had  gone  to  the  rooms 
whose  windows  faced  mine.  I  had  watched  its  arrival ; 
for  once  I  had  broken  through  my  rule  of  not  deliberate- 
ly watching  my  neighbors,  and  had  done  so.  The  tree 
arrived  in  the  morning.  It  was  kept  a  profound  mystery 
from  Sigmund,  who  was  relegated,  much  to  his  disgust,  to 
the  society  of  Frau  Schmidt  down-stairs,  who  kept  a  vigi- 
lant watch  upon  him  and  would  not  let  him  go  up-stairs 
on  any  account. 

The  afternoon  gradually  darkened  down.  My  landlady 
invited  me  to  join  her  party  down-stairs;  I  declined. 
The  rapturous,  untutored  joy  of  half  a  dozen  children  had 


206  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

no  attraction  for  me ;  the  hermit-like  watching  of  the 
scene  over  the  way  had.  I  did  not  light  my  lamp.  I 
was  secure  of  not  being  disturbed ;  for  Frau  Liitzler,  when 
I  would  not  come  to  her,  had  sent  my  supper  up-stairs, 
and  said  she  would  not  be  able  to  come  to  me  again  that 
evening. 

"  So  much  the  better ! "  I  murmured,  and  put  myself  in 
a  window  corner. 

The  lights  over  the  way  were  presently  lighted.  For  a 
moment  I  trembled  lest  the  blinds  were  going  to  be  put 
down,  and  all  my  chance  of  spying  spoiled.  But  no  :  my 
neighbors  were  careless  fellows — not  given  to  watching 
their  neighbors  themselves  nor  to  suspecting  other  people 
of  it.  The  blinds  were  left  up,  and  I  was  free  to  observe 
all  that  passed. 

Towards  half-past  five  I  saw  by  the  light  of  the  street- 
lamp,  which  was  just  opposite,  two  people  come  into  the 
house;  a  young  man  who  held  the  hand  of  a  little  girl. 
The  young  man  was  Karl  Linders,  the  violoncellist :  the 
little  girl,  I  supposed,  must  be  his  sister.  They  went  up- 
stairs, or  rather  Karl  went  up-stairs;  his  little  sister  re- 
mained below. 

There  was  a  great  shaking  of  hands  and  some  laughing 
when  Karl  came  into  the  room.  He  produced  various 
packages  which  were  opened,  their  contents  criticised,  and 
hung  upon  the  tree.  Then  the  three  men  surveyed  their 
handiwork  with  much  satisfaction.  I  could  see  the  whole 
scene.  They  could  not  see  my  watching  face  pressed 
against  the  window,  for  they  were  in  light  and  I  was  in 
darkness. 

Friedhelm  went  out  of  the  room,  and,  I  suppose,  exert- 
ed his  lungs  from  the  top  of  the  stairs,  for  he  came  back, 
flushed  and  laughing,  and  presently  the  door  opened,  and 
Frau  Schmidt,  looking  like  the  mother  of  the  Gracchi,  en- 
tered, holding  a  child  by  each  hand.  She  never  moved  a 
muscle.  She  held  a  hand  of  each,  and  looked  alternately 
at  them.  Breathless,  I  watched.  It  was  almost  as  exciting 
as  if  I  had  been  joining  in  the  play — more  so,  for  to  me 
everything  was  sur  rimprevn — revealed  piecemeal,  while 
to  them  some  degree  of  foreknowledge  must  exist,  to  de- 
prive the  ceremony  of  some  of  its  charms. 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


207 


There  was  awed  silence  for  a  time.  It  was  a  pretty 
scene.  In  the  middle  of  the  room  a  wooden  table  :  upon 
it  the  small  green  fir,  covered  with  little  twinkling  tapers : 
the  orthodox  waxen  angels,  and  strings  of  balls  and  bon- 
bons hanging  about — the  white  Christ-kind  at  the  top  in 
the  arms  of  Father  Christmas.  The  three  men  standing 
in  a  semicircle  at  one  side ;  how  well  I  could  see  them ! 
A  suppressed  smile  upon  Eugen's  face,  such  as  it  always 
wore  when  pleasing  other  people.  Friedhelm  not  allow- 
ing the  smile  to  fully  appear  upon  his  countenance,  but 
with  a  grave  delight  upon  his  face,  and  with  great  satis- 
faction beaming  from  his  luminous  brown  eyes.  Karl  with 
his  hands  in  his  pockets,  and  an  attitude  by  which  I  knew  he 
said,  "There!  what  do  you  think  of  that  ?"  Frau  Schmidt 
and  the  two  children  on  the  other  side. 

The  tree  was  not  a  big  one.  The  wax-lights  were  prob- 
ably cheap  ones :  the  gifts  that  hung  upon  the  boughs  or 
lay  on  the  table  must  have  been  measured  by  the  availa- 
ble funds  of  three  poor  musicians.  But  the  whole  affair 
did  its  mission  admirably — even  more  effectively  than  an 
official  commission  to  (let  us  say)  inquire  into  the  cause  of 
the  loss  of  an  ironclad.  It — the  tree  I  mean,  not  the  com- 
mission— was  intended  to  excite  joy  and  delight,  and  it  did 
excite  them  to  a  very  high  extent.  It  was  meant  to  pro- 
duce astonishment  in  unsophisticated  minds — it  did  that 
too,  and  here  it  has  a  point  in  common  with  the  proceed- 
ings of  the  commission  respectfully  alluded  too. 

The  little  girl,  who  was  a  head  taller  than  Sigmund,  had 
quantities  of  flaxen  hair  plaited  in  a  pigtail  and  tied  with 
light  blue  ribbon — new;  and  a  sweet  face  which  was  a 
softened  girl-miniature  of  her  brother's.  She  jumped  for 
joy,  and  eyed  the  tree  and  the  bonbons,  and  everything 
else  with  irrepressible  rapture.  Sigmund  was  not  given  to 
effusive  declaration  of  his  emotion,  but  after  gazing  long 
and  solemnly  at  the  show,  his  eyes  turned  to  his  father, 
and  the  two  smiled  in  the  odd  manner  they  had,  as  if  at 
some  private  understanding  existing  between  themselves. 
Then  the  festivities  were  considered  inaugurated. 

Friedhelm  Helfen  took  the  rest  of  the  proceedings  into 
his  own  hands;  and  distributed  the  presents  exactly  as  if 


208  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

he  had  found  them  all  growing  on  the  tree,  and  had  not 
the  least  idea  what  they  were  nor  whence  they  came.  A 
doll  which  fell  to  the  share  of  the  little  Gretchen  was  from 
Sigmund,  as  I  found  from  the  lively  demonstrations  that 
took  place.  Gretchen  kissed  him,  at  which  every  one 
laughed,  and  made  him  kiss  the  doll,  or  receive  a  kiss  from 
it — a  waxy  salute  which  did  not  seem  to  cause  him  much 
enthusiasm. 

I  could  not  see  what  the  other  things  were  only  it  was 
evident  that  every  one  gave  every  one  else  something,  and 
Frau  Schmidt's  face  relaxed  into  a  stern  smile  on  one  or 
two  occasions,  as  the  young  men  presented  her  one  after 
the  other  with  some  offering,  accompanied  with  speeches 
and  bows  and  ceremony.  A  conspicuous  parcel  done  up 
in  white  paper  was  left  to  the  last.  Then  Friedhelm  took 
it  up,  and  apparently  made  a  long  harangue,  for  the  com- 
pany— especially  Karl  Linders — became  attentive.  I  saw 
a  convulsive  smile  twitch  Eugen's  lips  now  and  then,  as 
the  oration  proceeded.  Karl  by  and  by  grew  even  solemn, 
and  it  was  with  an  almost  awe-struck  glance  that  he  at 
last  received  the  parcel  from  Friedhelm's  hands,  who  gave 
it  as  if  he  were  bestowing  his  blessing. 

Great  gravity,  eager  attention  on  the  part  of  the  children, 
who  pressed  up  to  him  as  he  opened  it;  then  the  last 
wrapper  was  torn  off,  and  to  my  utter  amazement  and  be- 
wilderment Karl  drew  forth  a  white  woolly  animal  of  in- 
definite race,  on  a  green  stand.  The  look  which  crossed 
his  face  was  indescribable;  the  shout  of  laughter  which 
greeted  the  discover)'  penetrated  even  to  my  ears. 

With  my  face  pressed  against  the  window  I  watched  : 
it  was  really  too  interesting.  But  my  spying  was  put  an 
end  to.  A  speech  appeared  to  be  made  to  Frau  Schmidt, 
to  which  she  answered  by  a  frosty  smile  and  an  elaborate 
%  courtesy.  She  was  apparently  saying  good-night,  but, 
with  the  instinct  of  a  housekeeper,  set  a  few  chairs  straight, 
pulled  a  table-cloth,  and  pushed  a  footstool  to  its  place, 
and  in  her  tour  round  the  room,  her  eyes  fell  upon  the 
windows.  She  came  and  put  the  shutters  to.  In  one 
moment  it  had  all  flashed  from  my  sight — tree  and  faces 
and  lamplight  and  brightness. 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


209 


I  raised  my  chin  from  my  hands,  and  found  that  I  was 
cold,  numb  and  stiff.  I  lighted  the  lamp,  and  passed  my 
hands  over  my  eyes;  but  could  not  quite  find  myself,  and 
instead  of  getting  to  some  occupation  of  my  own,  I  sat 
with  Richter's  "Thorough  Bass  and  Harmony"  before 
me  and  a  pen  in  my  hand,  and  wondered  what  they 
were  doing  now. 

It  was  with  the  remembrance  of  this  evening  in  my 
mind  to  emphasize  my  loneliness  that  I  woke  on  Christmas 
morning. 

At  post-time  my  landlady  brought  me  a  letter,  scented, 
monogrammed,  with  the  Roman  post-mark.  Adelaide 
wrote : 

"  I  won't  wish  you  a  merry  Christinas.  I  think  it  is 
such  nonsense.  Who  does  have  a  merry  Christmas  now, 
except  children  and  paupers?  And,  all  being  well — or 
rather  ill,  so  far  as  I  am  concerned — we  shall  meet  before 
long.  We  are  coming  to  Elberthal.  I  will  tell  you  why 
when  we  meet.  It  is  too  long  to  write — and  too  vexa- 
tious" (this  word  was  half-erased),  "troublesome.  I  will 
let  you  know  when  we  come,  and  our  address.  How  are 
you  getting  on? 

"ADELAIDE." 

I  was  much  puzzled  with  this  letter,  and  meditated  long 
over  it.  Something  lay  in  the  background.  Adelaide 
was  not  happy.  It  surely  could  not  be  that  Sir  Peter 
gave  her  any  cause  for  discomfort.  Impossible!  Did  he 
not  dote  upon  her  ?  Was  not  the  being  able  to  "  turn  him 
round  her  finger"  one  of  the  principal  advantages  of  her 
marriage?  And  yet,  that  she  should  be  coming  to  El- 
berthal of  her  own  will,  was  an  idea  which  my  understand- 
ing declined  to  accept.  She  must  have  been  compelled 
to  it — and  by  nothing  pleasant.  This  threw  another 
shadow  over  my  spirit. 

Going  to  the  window,  I  saw  again  how  lonely  I  was. 
The  people  were  passing  in  groups  and  throngs:  it  was 
Christmas-time;  they  were  glad.  They  had  nothing  in 
common  with  me.  I  looked  inside  my  room — bare, 


2IO 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


meager  chamber  that  it  was — the  piano  the  only  thing  in 
it  that  was  more  than  barely  necessary :  and  a  great  wonder 
came  over  me. 

"  What  is  the  use  of  it  all  ?  What  is  the  use  of  working 
hard  ?  WThy  am  I  leading  this  life  ?  To  earn  money,  and 
perhaps  applause — sometime.  Well,  and  when  I  have  got  it 
— even  supposing,  which  is  extremely  improbable,  that  I  win 
it  while  I  am  young  and  can  enjoy  it — what  good  will  it 
do  me  ?  I  don't  believe  it  will  make  me  very  happy.  I 
don't  know  that  I  long  for  it  very  much.  I  don't  know 
why  I  am  working  for  it,  except  because  Herr  von  Francius 
has  a  stronger  will  than  I  have,  and  rather  compels  me  to 
it.  Otherwise — 

"Well,  what  should  I  like?  What  do  I  wish  for."  At 
the  moment  I  seemed  to  feel  myself  free  from  all  prejudice 
and  all  influence,  and  surveying  with  a  calm,  impartial 
eye  possibilities  and  prospects,  I  could  not  discover  that 
there  was  anything  I  particularly  wished  for.  Had  some- 
thing within  me  changed  during  the  last  night? 

I  had  been  so  eager  before;  I  felt  so  apathetic  now.  I 
looked  across  the  way.  I  dimly  saw  Courvoisier  snatch 
up  his  boy,  hold  him  in  the  air,  and  then,  gathering  him 
to  him,  cover  him  with  kisses.  I  smiled.  At  the  moment 
I  felt  neutral — experienced  neither  pleasure  nor  pain  from 
the  sight.  I  had  loved  the  man  so  eagerly  and  intensely 
— with  such  warmth,  fervor,  and  humility.  It  seemed  as 
if  now  a  pause  had  come  (only  for  a  time,  I  knew,  but 
still  a  pause)  in  the  warm  current  of  delusion,  and  I  con- 
templated facts  with  a  dry,  unmoved  eye.  After  all — 
what  was  he  ?  A  man  who  seemed  quite  content  with  his 
station — not  a  particularly  good  or  noble  man  that  I  could 
see:  with  some  musical  talent  which  he  turned  to  account 
to  earn  his  bread.  He  had  a  fine  figure,  a  handsome 
face,  a  winning  smile,  plenty  of  presence  of  mind,  and  an 
excellent  opinion  of  himself. 

Stay !  Let  me  be  fair — he  had  only  asserted  his  right 
to  be  treated  as  a  gentleman  by  one  whom  he  had  treated 
in  every  respect  as  a  lady.  He  did  not  want  me — nor  to 
know  anything  about  me — else  why  could  he  laugh  for 
very  glee  as  his  boy's  eyes  met  his ?  Want  me  ?  No!  he 


'THE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  21 1 

was  rich  already.  What  he  had  was  sufficient  for  him, 
and  no  wonder,  I  thought,  with  a  jealous  pang. 

Who  would  want  to  have  anything  to  do  with  grown-up 
people,  with  their  larger  selfishnesses,  more  developed  self- 
seeking — robust  jealousies  and  full-grown  exactions  and 
sophistications,  when  they  had  a  beautiful  little  one  like 
that  ?  A  child  of  one's  own — not  any  child,  but  that  very 
child  to  love  in  that  ideal  way.  It  was  a  relation  that 
one  scarcely  sees  out  of  a  romance :  it  was  the  most  beau- 
tiful thing  I  ever  saw. 

His  life  was  sufficient  to  him.  He  did  not  suffer  as  I 
had  been  suffering.  Suppose  some  one  were  to  offer  him 
a  better  post  than  that  he  now  had.  He  would  be  glad, 
and  would  take  it  without  a  scruple.  Perhaps,  for  a  little 
while  some  casual  thought  of  me  might  now  and  then 
cross  his  mind — but  not  for  long;  certainly  in  no  importu- 
nate or  troublesome  manner.  While  I — why  was  I  there, 
if  not  for  his  sake?  What,  when  I  accepted  the  proposal 
of  Von  Francius,  had  been  my  chief  thought?  It  had 
been,  though  all  unspoken,  scarcely  acknowledged — yet  a 
whispered  force — "  I  shall  not  lose  sight  of  him — of  Eugen 
Courvoisier."  I  was  rightly  punished. 

I  felt  no  great  pain  just  now,  in  thinking  of  this.  I  saw 
myself,  and  judged  myself,  and  remembered  how  Faust 
had  said  once,  in  an  immortal  passage,  half  to  himself, 
half  to  Mephisto: 

"  Entbehren  sollst  du;  sollst  entbehren." 
And  that  read  both  ways,  it  comes  to  the  same  thing. 
"  Entbehren  sollst  du;    sollst  entbehren." 

It  flitted  rhythmically  through  my  mind  on  this  dream- 
ful morning,  when  I  seemed  a  stranger  to  myself,  or  rather, 
when  I  seemed  to  stand  outside  myself,  and  contemplate, 
calmly  and  judicially,  the  heart  which  had  of  late  beaten 
and  throbbed  with  such  vivid,  and  such  unreasoning,  un- 
connected pangs.  It  is  as  painful  and  as  humiliating  a 
description  of  self-vivisection  as  there  is,  and  one  not 
without  its  peculiar  merits. 

The  end  of  my  reflections  was  the  same  as  that  which 


2I2  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN, 

is,  I  believe,  often  arrived  at  by  the  talented  class  called 
philosophers,  who  spend  much  learning  and  science  in 
going  into  the  questions  about  whose  skirts  I  skimmed : 
many  of  them,  like  me,  after  summing  up,  say,  Cut  bono  ? 
So  passed  the  morning,  and  the  gray  cloud  still  hung 
over  my  spirits.  My  landlady  brought  me  a  slice  of 
Kitchen  at  dinner-time,  for  Christmas ;  and  wished  me 
guten  Appetit  to  it,  for  which  I  thanked  her  with  gravity. 

In  the  afternoon  I  turned  to  the  piano.  After  all  it 
was  Christmas-day.  After  beginning  a  bravura  singing- 
exercise,  I  suddenly  stopped  myself,  and  found  myself, 
before  I  knew  what  I  was  about,  singing  the  Adeste 
Fidelis — till  I  could  not  sing  any  more.  Something  rose 
in  my  throat — ceasing  abruptly,  I  burst  into  tears,  and 
cried  plentifully  over  the  piano  keys. 

"In  tears,  Fraulein  May!  Aber — what  does  that 
mean  ?  " 

I  looked  up.  Von  Francius  stood  in  the  door-way, 
looking  not  unkindly  at  me,  with  a  bouquet  in  his  hand 
of  Christmas  roses  and  ferns. 

'It  is  only  because  it  is  Christmas,"  said  I. 

'  Are  you  quite  alone  ?  " 

'Yes." 

'So  am  I." 

'You !     But  you  have  so  many  friends." 

'Have  I?  It  is  true,  that  if  friends  count  by  the 
number  of  invitations  that  one  has,  I  have  many.  Un- 
fortunately I  could  not  make  up  my  mind  to  accept  any. 
As  I  passed  through  the  flower-market  this  morning 'l 
thought  of  you — naturally.  It  struck  me  that  perhaps 
you  had  no  one  to  come  and  wish  you  the  Merry  Christ- 
mas and  Happy  New  Year  which  belongs  to  you  of  right, 
so  7  came,  and  have  the  pleasure  to  wish  it  you  now, 
with  these  flowers,  though  truly  they  are  not  Maibliim- 
chcn." 

He  raised  my  hand  to  his  lips,  and  I  was  quite  amazed 
at  the  sense  of  strength,  healthiness,  and  new  life  which 
his  presence  brought. 

"I  am  very  foolish,"  I  remarked;  "I  ought  to  know 
better.  But  I  am  unhappy  about  my  sister,  and  also  I 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


213 


have  been  foolishly  thinking  of  old  times,  when  she  and  I 
were  at  home  together." 

"El/  That  is  foolish.  Those  things — old  times  and  all 
that — are  the  very  deuce  for  making  one  miserable. 
Strauss — he  who  writes  dance  music — has  made  a  waltz, 
and  called  it  'The  Good  Old  times.'  Lieber  Himmel ! 
Fancy  waltzing  to  the  memory  of  old  times !  A  requiem 
or  a  funeral  march  would  have  been  intelligible." 

"Yes." 

"  Well,  you  must  not  sit  here  and  let  these  old  times  say 
what  they  like  to  you.  Will  you  come  out  with  me  ?  " 

"  Go  out ! "  I  echoed,  with  an  unwilling  shrinking 
from  it.  My  soul  preferred  rather  to  shut  herself  up  in 
her  case  and  turn  surlily  away  from  the  light  outside. 
But,  as  usual,  he  had  his  way. 

"  Yes — out.  The  two  loneliest  people  in  Elberthal  will 
make  a  little  Zauberfest  for  themselves.  I  will  show  you 
some  pictures.  There  are  some  new  ones  at  the  Exhibi- 
tion. Make  haste." 

So  calm,  so  matter-of-fact  was  his  manner,  so  indisputa- 
ble did  he  seem  to  think  his  proposition,  that  I  half  rose; 
then  I  sat  down  again. 

'%I  don't  want  to  go  out,  Herr  von  Francius." 

"That  is  foolish.  Quick!  before  the  daylight  fades 
and  it  grows  too  dark  for  the  pictures." 

Scarcely  knowing  why  I  complied,  I  went  to  my  room 
and  put  on  my  things.  What  a  shabby  sight  I  looked ! 
I  felt  it  keenly ;  so  much,  that  when  I  came  back  and 
found  him  seated  at  the  piano,  and  playing  a  wonderful 
in  and  out  fugue  of  immense  learning  and  immense  dif- 
ficulty, and  quite  without  pathos  or  tenderness,  I  inter- 
rupted him  incontinently. 

"  Here  I  am,  Herr  von  Francius.  You  have  asked  the 
most  shabbily-dressed  person  in  Elberthal  to  be  your  com- 
panion. I  have  a  mind  to  make  you  hold  to  your  bargain, 
whether  you  like  it  or  not." 

Von  Francius  turned,  surveying  me  from  head  to  foot, 
with  a  smile.  All  the  pedagogue  was  put  off.  It  was 
holiday-time.  I  was  half  vexed  at  myself  for  beginning 
to  feel  as  if  it  were  holiday-time  with  me  too. 


214 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


We  went  out  together.  The  wind  was  raw  and  cold, 
the  day  dreary,  the  streets  not  so  full  as  they  had  been. 
We  went  along  the  street  past  the  Tonhalle,  and  there  we 
met  Courvoisier  alone.  He  looked  at  us,  but  though 
Von  Francius  raised  his  hat,  he  did  not  notice  us.  There 
was  a  pallid  change  upon  his  face,  a  fixed  look  in  his 
eyes,  a  strange,  drawn,  subdued  expression  upon  his  whole 
countenance.  My  heart  leaped  with  an  answering  pang. 
That  mood  of  the  morning  had  fled.  I  had  "  found  my- 
self again,"  but  again  not  "happily." 

I  followed  Von  Francius  up  the  stairs  of  the  picture  ex- 
hibition. No  one  was  in  the  room.  All  the  world  had 
other  occupations  on  Christmas  afternoon,  or  preferred  the 
stove-side  and  the  family  circle. 

Von  Francius  showed  me  a  picture  which  he  said  every 
one  was  talking  about. 

"  Why  ?  "  I  inquired  when  I  had  contemplated  it,  and 
failed  to  find  it  lovely. 

"The  drawing,  the  grouping,  are  admirable,  as  you 
must  see.  The  art  displayed  is  wonderful.  I  find  the 
picture  excellent." 

"  But  the  subject  ?  "  said  I. 

It  was  not  a  large  picture,  and  represented  the  interior 
of  an  artist's  atelier.  In  the  foreground  a  dissipated-look- 
ing young  man  tilted  his  chair  backwards  as  he  held  his 
gloves  in  one  hand,  and  with  the  other  stroked  his  mus- 
tache, while  he  contemplated  a  picture  standing  on  an  easel 
before  him.  The  face  was  hard,  worn,  blase  ;  the  features, 
originally  good,  and  even  beautiful,  had  had  all  the  latent 
loveliness  worn  out  of  them  by  a  wrong,  unbeautiful  life. 
He  wore  a  tall  hat,  very  much  to  one  side,  as  if  to  accent 

:  fact  that  the  rest  of  the  company,  upon  whom  he  had 

1  his  back,  certainly  did  not  merit  that  he  should  be 

at  the  trouble  of  baring  his  head  to  them.     And  the  rest 

the  company— a  girl,  a  model,  seated  on  a  chair  upon 
a  raised  dais,  dressed  in  a  long,  flounced  white  skirt,  not 

the  freshest,  some  kind  of  oriental  wrap  falling  neg- 
ligently about  it— arms,  models  of  shapeliness,  folded,  and 
she  crouching  herself  together  as  if  wearied,  or  con- 
temptuous, or  perhaps  a  little  chilly.  Upon  a  divan  near 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


215 


her  a  man — presumably  the  artist  to  whom  the  establish- 
ment pertained — stretched  at  full  length,  looking  up 
carelessly  into  her  face,  a  pipe  in  his  mouth,  with  indiffer- 
ence and — scarcely  impertinence — it  did  not  take  the 
trouble  to  be  a  fully-developed  impertinence — in  every 
gesture.  This  was  the  picture;  faithful  to  life,  significant 
in  its  very  insignificance,  before  which  Von  Francius  sat, 
and  declared  that  the  drawing,  coloring,  and  grouping 
were  perfect.* 

"The  subject  ?  "  he  echoed  after  a  pause.  "It  is  only 
a  scrap  of  artist-life." 

"  Is  that  artist-life  ?  "  said  I,  shrugging  my  shoulders. 
"I  do  not  like  it  at  all;  it  is  common,  low,  vulgar.  There 
is  no  romance  about  it ;  it  only  reminds  one  of  stale  to- 
bacco and  flat  champagne." 

"You  are  too  particular,"  said  Von  Francius  after  a 
pause,  and  with  a  flavor  of  some  feeling  which  I  did  not 
quite  understand  tincturing  his  voice. 

For  my  part,  I  was  looking  at  the  picture  and  thinking 
of  what  Courvoisier  had  said :  "  Beauty,  impudence,  as- 
surance, and  an  admiring  public."  That  the  girl  was 
beautiful — at  least,  she  had  the  battered  remains  of  a  de- 
cided beauty ;  she  had  impudence  certainly,  and  assurance 
too,  and  an  admiring  public,  I  supposed,  which  testified 
its  admiration  by  lolling  on  a  couch  and  staring  at  her,  or 
keeping  its  hat  on  and  turning  its  back  to  her. 

"  Do  you  really  admire  the  picture,  Herr  von  Francius  ?" 
I  inquired. 

"  Indeed  I  do.  It  is  so  admirably  true.  That  is  the 
kind  of  life  into  which  I  was  born,  and  in  which  I  was 
for  a  long  time  brought  up ;  but  I  escaped  from  it." 

I  looked  at  him  in  astonishment.  It  seemed  so  extraor- 
dinary that  that  model  of  reticence  should  speak  to  me, 
above  all,  upon  himself.  It  struck  me  for  the  very  first 
time  that  no  one  ever  spoke  of  Von  Francius  as  if  he  had 
any  one  belonging  to  him.  Calm,  cold,  lonely,  self-suf- 
ficing— and  self-sufficing,  too,  because  he  must  be  so,  be- 
cause he  had  none  other  to  whom  to  turn — that  was  'his 

*  The  original  is  by  Charles  Herman,  of  Brussels. 


216  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN1. 

character,  and  viewing  him  in  that  manner  I  had  always 
judged  him.     But  what  might  the  truth  be? 

"  Were  you  not  happy  when  you  were  young  ?  "  I  ask- 
ed, on  a  quick  impulse. 

_  "Happy!  Who  expects  to  be  happy?  If  I  had  been 
simply  not  miserable,  I  should  have  counted  my  childhood 
a  good  one  ;  but  —  " 

He  paused  a  moment,  then  went  on  : 

"  Your  great  novelist,  Dickens,  had  a  poor,  sordid  kind 
of  childhood  in  outward  circumstances.  But  mine  was 
spiritually  sordid  —  hideous,  repulsive.  There  are  some 
plants  which  spring  from  and  flourish  in  mud  and  slime; 
they  are  but  a  flabby,  pestiferous  growth,  as  you  may  sup- 
pose. I  was,  to  begin  with,  a  human  specimen  of  that 
kind;  I  was  in  an  atmosphere  of  moral  mud,  an  intellect- 
ual hot-bed.  I  don't  know  what  there  was  in  me  that  set 
me  against  the  life;  that  I  never  can  tell.  It  was  a  sort 
of  hell  on  earth  that  I  was  living  in.  One  day  something 
happened—  I  was  twelve  years  old  then—  something  hap&- 
pened,  and  it  seemed  as  if  all  my  nature—  its  good  and  its 
evil,  its  energies  and  indolences,  its  pride  and  humility- 
all  ran  together,  welded  by  the  furnace  of  passion  into 
one  furious,  white-hot  rage  of  anger,  rebellion.  In  an  in- 
stant I  had  decided  my  course;  in  an  hour  I  had  acted 
upon  it.  I  am  an  odd  kind  of  fellow  I  believe  I  quit- 
ted that  scene  and  have  never  visited  it  since.  I  cannot 
iescnbe  to  you  the  anger  I  then  felt,  and  to  which  I 
yielded.  Twelve  years  old  I  was  then.  I  fought  hard 
for  many  years;  but,  mein  Friiultin—"  (he  looked  at  me 
and  paused  a  moment)-"  that  was  the  first  occasion 
upon  which  I  ever  was  really  angry;  it  has  been  the  last. 

teve  never  felt  the  sensation  of  anger  since—  I  mean 

ional  anger     Artistic  anger  I  have  known;     the  an- 
frt    h  ,  T  r    '  ^  aue  interPretati°ns,  at  charlatanry  in 
VC  ""  angry  Whh  the  anSer  that  re- 


ents      I  ten 

tha   brJf  fl    ^l         ^  E  CUn°Slt>r  °f  char*cter.     With 
that  brief  flash  all  resentment  seemed  to  evaporate  from 
me-to  exhaust  itself  in  one  brief,  resolute,  effective  at 
tempt  at  self-cleansing,  self-go  vermnent." 
He  paused. 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


217 


"  Tell  me  more,  Herr  von  Francius,"  I  besought.  "  Do 
not  leave  oft"  there.  Afterwards?" 

"You  really  care  to  hear?  Afterwards  I  lived  through 
hardships  in  plenty;  but  I  had  effectually  severed  the 
whole  connection  with  that  which  dragged  me  down.  I 
used  all  my  will  to  rise.  I  am  not  boasting,  but  simply 
stating  a  peculiarity  of  my  temperament  when  I  tell  you 
that  what  I  determine  upon  I  always  accomplish.  I  de- 
termined upon  rising,  and  I  have  risen  to  what  I  am.  I 
set  it,  or  something  like  it,  before  me  as  my  goal,  and  I 
have  attained  it." 

"Well?"  I  asked,  with  some  eagerness;  for  I,  after  all 
my  unfulfilled  strivings,  had  asked  myself  Cut  bono? 
"And  what  is  the  end  of  it?  Are  you  satisfied?" 

"  How  quickly  and  how  easily  you  see ! "  said  he,  with 
a  smile.  "  I  value  the  position  I  have,  in  a  certain  way 
— that  is,  I  see  the  advantage  it  gives  me,  and  the  influ- 
ence. But  that  deep  inner  happiness,  which  lies  outside 
of  condition  and  circumstances — that  feeling  of  the  poet 
in  Faust — don't  you  remember  ? — 

'I  nothing  had,  and  yet  enough' — 

all  that  is  unknown  to  me.     For  I  ask  myself,  Cidbono?" 

"  Like  me,"  I  could  not  help  saying. 

He  added: 

"  Fraulein  May,  the  nearest  feeling  I  have  had  to  hap- 
piness has  been  the  knowing  you.  Do  you  know  that 
you  are  a  person  who  makes  joy?" 

"  No,  indeed  I  did  not." 

"  It  is  true,  though.  I  should  like,  if  you  do  not  mind 
— if  you  can  say  it  truly — to  hear  from  your  lips  that  you 
look  upon  me  as  your  friend." 

"  Indeed,  Herr  von  Francius,  I  feel  you  my  very  best 
friend,  and  I  would  not  lose  your  regard  for  anything,"  I 
was  able  to  assure  him. 

And  then,  as  it  was  growing  dark,  the  woman  from  the 
receipt  of  custom  by  the  door  came  in  and  told  us  that 
she  must  close  the  rooms. 

We  got  up  and  went  out.  In  the  street  the  lamps  were 
lighted,  and  the  people  going  up  and  down. 


2Ig  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

Von  Francius  left  me  at  the  door  of  my  lodgings. 
"Good-evening,  liebes  Frdulein;    and  thank   you  for 
your  company  this  afternoon." 

A  light  burned  steadily  all  evening  in  the  sitting-room 
of  my  opposite  neighbors;  but  the  shutters  were  closed. 
I  only  saw  a  thin  stream  coming  through  a  chink. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

"Es  ist  bestimmt,  in  Gottes  Rath, 
Dass  man  vona  Liebsten  was  man  hat 
Muss  scheiden." 

OUR  merry  little  Zauberfest  of  Christmas  eve  was  over. 
Christmas  morning  came.  I  remember  that  morning 
well — a  gray,  neutral  kind  of  day,  whose  monotony  out- 
side emphasized  the  keenness  of  emotion  within. 

On  that  morning  the  postman  came — a  rather  rare  oc- 
currence with  us;  for,  except  with  notes  from  pupils,  no- 
tices of  Proben,  or  other  official  communications,  he  sel- 
dom troubled  us. 

It  was  Sigmund  who  opened  the  door;  it  was  he  who 
took  the  letter,  and  wished  the  postman  "good-morning" 
in  his  courteous  little  way.  I  dare  say  that  the  incident 
gave  an  additional  pang  afterwards  to  the  father,  if  he 
marked  it,  and  seldom  did  the  smallest  act  or  movement 
of  his  child  escape  him. 

"  Father,  here  is  a  letter,"  he  said,  giving  it  into  Eugen's 
hand. 

"Perhaps  it  is  for  Friedel;  thou  art  too  ready  to  think 
that  everything  appertains  to  thy  father,"  said  Eugen,  with 
a  smile,  as  he  took  the  letter  and  looked  at  it;  but  before 
he  had  finished  speaking  the  smile  had  faded.  There  re- 
mained a  whiteness,  a  blank,  a  haggardness. 

I  had  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  letter;  it  was  large, 
square,  massive,  and  there  was  a  seal  upon  the  envelope 
— a  regular  letter  of  fate  out  of  a  romance. 

Eugen  took  it  into  his  hand,  and  for  once  he  made  no 


220  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

answer  to  the  caress  of  his  child,  who  put  his  arms  round 
his  neck  and  wanted  to  climb  upon  his  knee.  He  allowed 
the  action,  but  passively. 

"  Let  me  open  it! "  cried  Sigmund.  "  Let  me  open  thy 
letter!" 

"  No,  no,  child ! "  said  Eugen  in  a  sharp,  pained  tone. 
"  Let  it  alone." 

Sigmund  looked  surprised,  and  recoiled  a  little;  a  shock 
clouding  his  eyes.  It  was  all  right  if  his  father  said  no, 
but  a  shade  presently  crossed  his  young  face.  His  father 
did  not  usually  speak  so:  did  not  usually  have  that  white 
and  pallid  look  about  the  eyes — above  all,  did  not  look  at 
his  son  with  a  look  that  meant  nothing. 

Eugen  was  usually  prompt  enough  in  all  he  did,  but  he 
laid  aside  that  letter,  and  proposed  in  a  subdued  tone  that 
we  should  have  breakfast.  Which  we  had,  and  still  the 
letter  lay  unopened.  And  when  breakfast  was  over  he 
even  took  up  his  violin  and  played  runs  and  shakes  and 
scales — and  the  air  of  a  drinking  song,  which  sounded 
grotesque  in  contrast  with  the  surroundings.  This  lasted 
for  some  time,  and  yet  the  letter  was  not  opened.  It 
seemed  as  if  he  could  not  open  it.  I  knew  that  it  was 
with  a  desperate  effort  that  he  at  last  took  it  up,  and — 
went  into  his  room  and  shut  the  door. 

I  was  reading — that  is,  I  had  a  book  in  my  hands,  and 
was  stretched  out  in  the  full  luxury  of  an  unexpected  hol- 
iday upon  the  couch;  but  I  could  no  more  have  read  un- 
der the  new  influence,  could  no  more  have  helped  watch- 
ing Sigmund,  than  I  could  help  breathing  and  feeling. 

He,  Sigmund,  stood  still  for  a  moment,  looking  at  the 
closed  door;  gazing  at  it  as  if  he  expected  it  to  open, 
and  a  loved  hand  to  beckon  him  within.  But  it  remained 
pitilessly  shut,  and  the  little  boy  had  to  accommodate  him- 
self as  well  as  he  could  to  a  new  phase  in  his  mental 
history — the  being  excluded — left  out  in  the  cold.  After 
making  an  impulsive  step  towards  the  door  he  turned; 
plunged  his  hands  into  his  pockets  as  if  to  keep  them 
from  attacking  the  handle  of  that  closed  door,  and  walk- 
ing to  the  window,  gazed  out,  silent  and  motionless.  I 
watched :  I  was  compelled  to  watch.  He  was  listening 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  221 

with  every  faculty,  every  fibre,  for  the  least  noise,  the 
faintest  movement  from  the  room  from  which  he  was 
shut  out.  I  did  not  dare  to  speak  to  him.  I  was  very 
miserable  myself;  and  a  sense  of  coming  loss  and  disaster 
was  driven  firmly  into  my  mind  and  fixed  there — a  heavy 
prevision  of  inevitable  sorrow  and  pain  overhung  my 
mind.  I  turned  to  my  book  and  tried  to  read.  It  was 
one  of  the  most  delightful  of  romances  that  I  held — no 
other  than  Die  Kinder  der  Welt — and  the  scene  was  that 
in  which  Edwin  and  Toinette  make  that  delightful,  irreg- 
ular Sunday  excursion  to  the  Charlottenburg,  but  I  un- 
derstood none  of  it.  With  that  pathetic  little  real  figure 
taking  up  so  much  of  my  consciousness,  and  every  mo- 
ment more  insistently  so,  I  could  think  of  nothing  else. 

Dead  silence  from  the  room  within;  utter  and  entire 
silence,  which  lasted  so  long  that  my  misery  grew  acute, 
and  still  that  little  figure,  which  was  now  growing  terrible 
to  me,  neither  spoke  nor  stirred.  I  do  not  know  how 
long  by  the  clock  we  remained  in  these  relative  positions  : 
by  my  feelings  it  was  a  week ;  by  those  of  Sigmund,  I 
doubt  not,  a  hundred  years.  But  he  turned  at  last,  and 
with  a  face  from  which  all  trace  of  color  had  fled  walked 
slowly  towards  the  closed  door. 

"  Sigmund ! "  I  cried  in  a  loud  whisper.  "  Come  here, 
my  child  !  Stay  here,  with  me." 

"I  must  go  in."  said  he.  He  did  not  knock.  He 
opened  the  door  softly,  and  went  in,  closing  it  after  him. 
I  know  not  what  passed.  There  was  silence  as  deep  as 
before,  after  one  short,  inarticulate  murmur.  There  are 
some  moments  in  this  our  life  which  are  at  once  sacrificial, 
sacramental,  and  strong  with  the  virtue  of  absolution  for 
sins  past ;  moments  which  are  a  crucible  from  which  a 
stained  soul  may  come  out  white  again.  Such  were  these 
— I  know  it  now — in  which  father  and  son  were  alone 
together. 

After  a  short  silence,  during  which  my  book  hung  un- 
heeded from  my  hand,  I  left  the  house,  out  of  a  sort 
of  respect  for  my  two  friends.  I  had  nothing  particular 
to  do,  and  so  strolled  aimlessly  about,  first  into  the  Hof- 
garten,  where  I  watched  the  Rhine,  and  looked  Holland- 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


wards  along  its  low,  flat  shores,  to  where  there  was  a 
bend,  and  beyond  the  bend,  Kaiserswerth.  It  is  now 
long  since  I  saw  the  river.  Fair  are  his  banks  higher  up 
—  not  at  Elberthal  would  he  have  struck  the  stranger  as 
being  a  stream  for  which  to  fight  and  die  ;  but  to  me 
there  is  no  part  of  his  banks  so  lovely  as  the  poor  old 
Schone  Aussicht  in  the  Elberthal  Hofgarfen,  from  whence 
I  have  watched  the  sun  set  flaming  over  the  broad  water, 
and  felt  my  heart  beat  to  the  sense  of  precious  possessions 
in  the  homely  town  behind.  Then  I  strolled  through  the 
town,  and  coming  down  the  Konigsallee,  beheld  some 
bustle  in  front  of  a  large,  imposing-looking  house,  which 
had  long  been  shut  up  and  uninhabited.  It  had  been  a 
venture  by  a  too  shortly  successful  banker.  He  had 
built  the  house,  lived  in  it  three  months,  and  finding 
himself  bankrupt,  had  one  morning  disposed  of  himself 
by  cutting  his  throat.  Since  then  the  house  had  been 
closed,  and  had  had  an  ill  name,  though  it  was  the  hand- 
somest building  in  the  most  fashionable  part  of  the  town, 
with  a  grand  porte-cochere  in  front,  and  a  pleasant,  en- 
ticing kind  of  bowery  garden  behind  —  the  house  faced 
the  Exerzierplatz,  and  was  on  the  promenade  of  Elber- 
thal. A  fine  chestnut  avenue  made  the  street  into  a 
pleasant  wood,  and  yet  Konigsallee  No.  3  always  looked 
deserted  and  depressing.  I  paused  to  watch  the  work- 
men who  were  throwing  open  the  shutters  and  uncovering 
the  furniture.  There  were  some  women-servants  busy 
with  brush  and  duster  in  the  hall,  and  a  splendid  barouche 
was  being  pushed  through  the  porte-cochere  into  the  back 
premises  :  a  couple  of  trim-looking  English  grooms  with 
lour  horses  followed. 

"  Is  some  one  coming  to  live  here  ?  "  I  demanded  of  a 
workman,  who  made  answer  : 

"y<z  wohl!  A  rich  English  milord  has  taken  the 
house  furnished  for  six  months—  Sir  Le  Marchant,  oder  so 
etwas.  I  do  not  know  the  name  quite  correctly.  He 
comes  in  a  few  days." 

"So!"  said    I,   wondering  what   attraction    Elberthal 

Her  to  a  rich  English  sir  or  milord,  and  feeling  at 

the  same  time  a  mild  glow  of  curiosity  as  to  him  and  his 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


223 


circumstances,  for  I  humbly  confess  it — I  had  never  seen 
an  authentic  milord.  Elberthal  and  Koln  were  almost 
the  extent  of  my  travels,  and  I  only  remembered  that  at 
the  Niederrheinisches  Musikfest  last  year,  some  one  had 
pointed  out  to  me  a  decrepit-looking  old  gentleman,  with 
a  bottle-nose  and  a  meaningless  eye,  as  a  milord — very, 
very  rich,  and  exceedingly  good.  I  had  sorrowed  a  little 
at  the  time  in  thinking  that  he  did  not  personally  better 
grace  his  circumstances  and  character,  but  until  this  mo- 
ment I  had  never  thought  of  him  again. 

"That  is  his  secretary,"  pursued  the  workman  to  me, 
in  an  undertone,  as  he  pointed  out  a  young  man  who  was 
standing  in  the  middle  of  the  hall,  note-book  in  hand. 
"  Herr  Arkwright.  He  is  looking  after  us." 

"  When  does  the  Englander  come  ?  " 

"In  a  few  days,  with  his  servants  and  milady,  and 
milady's  maid  and  dogs  and  bags  and  everything.  And 
she — milady — is  to  have  those  rooms  " — he  pointed  over- 
head, and  grinned — "  those,  where  Banquier  Klein  was 
found  with  his  throat  cut.  lie!" 

He  laughed,  and  began  to  sing  lustily,  "In  Berlin, 
sagf  er." 

After  giving  one  more  short  survey  to  the  house,  and 
wondering  why  the  apartments  of  a  suicide  should  be 
assigned  to  a  young  and  beautiful  woman  (for  I  instinct- 
ively judged  her  to  be  young  and  beautiful),  I  went  on 
my  way,  and  my  thoughts  soon  returned  to  Eugen  and 
Sigmund,  and  that  trouble  which  I  felt  was  hanging  in- 
evitably over  us. 


Eugen  was,  that  evening,  in  a  mood  of  utter,  cool 
aloofness.  His  trouble  did  not  appear  to  be  one  that  he 
could  confide — at  present,  at  least.  He  took  up  his  violin 
and  discoursed  most  eloquent  music,  in  the  dark,  to 
which  music  Sigmund  and  I  listened.  Sigmund  sat  upon 
my  knee,  and  Eugen  went  on  playing — improvising,  or 
rather  speaking  the  thoughts  which  were  uppermost  in  his 
heart.  It  was  wild,  strange,  melancholy,  sometimes  sweet, 
but  ever  with  a  ringing  note  of  woe  so  piercing  as  to 


224  THE  FIRST  VIOLIX. 

stab,  recurring  perpetually — such  a  note  as  comes  throb- 
bing to  life  now  and  then  in  the  Sonate  Pathetique,  or  in 
Raflf's  Fifth  Symphony. 

Eugen  always  went  to  Sigmund  after  he  had  gone  to 
bed,  and  talked  to  him  or  listened  to  him.  I  do  not 
know  if  he  taught  him  something  like  a  prayer  at  such 
times,  or  spoke  to  him  of  supernatural  things,  or  upon 
what  they  discoursed.  I  only  know  that  it  was  an  inter- 
change of  soul,  and  that  usually  he  came  away  from  it 
looking  glad.  But  to-night,  after  remaining  longer  than 
usual,  he  returned  with  a  face  more  haggard  than  I  had 
seen  it  yet. 

He  sat  down  opposite  me  at  the  table,  and  there  was 
silence,  with  an  ever-deepening,  sympathetic  pain  on  my 
part.  At  last  I  raised  my  eyes  to  his  face ;  one  elbow 
rested  upon  the  table,  and  his  head  leaned  upon  his  hand. 
The  lamplight  fell  full  upon  his  face,  and  there  was  that 
in  it  which  would  let  me  be  silent  no  longer,  any  more 
than  one  could  see  a  comrade  bleeding  to  death,  and  not 
try  to  stanch  the  wound.  I  stepped  up  to  him  and  laid 
my  hand  upon  his  shoulder.  He  looked  up  drearily,  un- 
recognizingly,  unsmilingly  at  me. 

"Eugen,  what  hast  thou?" 

"  La  mart  dans  /'dme"  he  answered,  quoting  from  a 
poem  which  we  had  both  been  reading. 

"And  what  has  caused  it  ?" 

"  Must  you  know,  friend  ? "  he  asked.  "  If  I  did  not 
need  to  tell  it,  I  should  be  very  glad." 

"I  must  know  it,  or — or  leave  you  to  it!"  said  I, 
choking  back  some  emotion.  "I  cannot  pass  another 
day  like  this." 

"  And  I  had  no  right  to  let  you  spend  such  a  day  as 
this, "  he  answered.  "Forgive  me  once  again,  Friedel — 
you  who  have  forgiven  so  much  and  so  often.  " 

"Well,  "  said  I,  "let  us  have  the  worst,  Eugen.  It  is 
something  about —  " 

~-  I  glanced  towards  the  door,  on  the  other  side  of  which 
Sigmund  was  sleeping. 

His  face  became  set,  as  if  of  stone.  One  word,  and 
one  alone,  after  a  short  pause,  passed  his  lips — "  Ja  .' " 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


225 


I  breathed  again.     It  was  so  then. 

"  I  told  you,  Friedel,  that  I  should  have  to  leave  him  ?  " 

The  words  dropped  out  one  by  one  from  his  lips,  dis- 
tinct, short,  steady. 

"Yes." 

"That  was  bad,  very  bad.  The  worst,  I  thought,  that 
could  befall ;  but  it  seems  that  my  imagination  was  lim- 
ited." 

"  Eugen,  what  is  it  ?  " 

"I  shall  not  have  to  leave  him.  I  shall  have  to  send 
him  away  from  me." 

As  if  with  the  utterance  of  the  words,  the  very  core  and 
fibre  of  resolution  melted  away  and  vanished,  and  the 
broken  spirit  turned  writhing  and  shuddering  from  the 
phantom  that  extended  its  arms  for  the  sacrifice,  he  flung 
his  arms  upon  the  table ;  his  shoulders  heaved,  i  heard 
two  suppressed,  choked-down  sobs — the  sobs  of  a  strong 
man — strong  alike  in  body  and  mind;  strongest  of  all  in 
the  heart  and  spirit  and  purpose  to  love  and  cherish. 

"jLa  mort  dans  rdme,"  indeed !  He  could  have  chosen 
no  fitter  expression. 

"  Send  him  away !  "  I  echoed,  beneath  my  breath. 

"  Send  my  child  away  from  me — as  if  I — did  not — want 
him, "  said  Courvoisier,  slowly,  and  in  a  voice  made  low 
and  halting  with  anguish,  as  he  lifted  his  gaze,  dim  with 
the  desperate  pain  of  coming  parting,  and  looked  me  in 
the  face. 

I  had  begun  in  an  aimless  manner  to  pace  the  room ; 
my  heart  on  fire,  my  brain  reaching  wildly  after  some  es- 
cape from  the  fetters  of  circumstance,  invisible  but  iron- 
strong,  relentless  as  cramps  and  glaives  of  tempered  steel. 
I  knew  no  reason,  of  course.  I  knew  no  outward  circum- 
stances of  my  friend's  life  or  destiny.  I  did  not  wish  to 
learn  any.  I  did  know  that  since  he  said  it  was  so  it  must 
be  so.  Sigmund  must  be  sent  away !  He — we — must  be 
left  alone  ;  two  poor  men,  with  the  brightness  gone  from 
our  lives. 

The  scene  does  not  let  me  rightly  describe  it.  It  was 
an  anguish  allied  in  its  intensity  to  that  of  Gethsemane. 
Let  me  relate  it  as  briefly  as  I  can. 


226  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

I  made  no  spoken  assurance  of  sympathy.  I  winced 
almost  at  the  idea  of  speaking  to  him.  I  knew  then  that 
we  may  contemplate,  or  believe  we  contemplate,  some 
coming  catastrophe  for  years,  believing  that  so  the  suffer- 
ing, when  it  finally  falls,  will  be  lessened.  This  is  a  delu- 
sion. Let  the  blow  rather  come  short,  sharp,  and  without 
forewarning :  preparation  heightens  the  agony. 

"Friedel,"  said  he  at  last,  "you  do  not  ask  why  must 
this  be." 

"  I  do  not  need  to  ask  why.  I  know  that  it  must  be, 
or  you  would  not  do  it." 

"  I  would  tell  you  if  I  could — if  I  might." 

"  For  heaven's  sake,  don't  suppose  that  I  wish  to  pry — " 
I  began.  He  interrupted  me. 

"You  will  make  me  laugh  in  spite  of  myself,"  said  he. 
"  You  wish  to  pry !  Now,  let  me  see  how  much  more  I 
can  tell  you.  You  perhaps  think  it  wrong,  in  an  abstract 
light,  for  a  father  to  send  his  young  son  away  from  him. 
That  is  because  you  do  not  know  what  I  do.  If  you  did, 
you  would  say,  as  I  do,  that  it  must  be  so —  I  never  saw 
it  till  now.  That  letter  was  a  revelation.  It  is  now  all  as 
clear  as  sunshine." 

I  assented. 

"  Then  you  consent  to  take  my  word  that  it  must  be  so, 
without  more." 

"  Indeed,  Eugen,  I  wish  for  no  more." 

He  looked  at  me.  "If  I  were  to  tell  you,"  said  he, 
suddenly,  and  an  impulsive  light  beamed  in  his  eyes.  A 
look  of  relief- — it  was  nothing  else — of  hope,  crossed  his 
face.  Then  he  sank  again  into  his  former  attitude — as  if 
tired  and  wearied  with  some  hard  battle ;  exhausted,  or 
what  we  more  expressively  call  niedergeschlagen. 

"  Now  something  more,"  he  went  on ;  and  I  saw  the 
frown  of  desperation  that  gathered  upon  his  brow.  He 
went  on  quickly,  as  if  otherwise  he  could  not  say  what 
had  to  be  said  :  "  When  he  goes  from  me,  he  goes  to  learn 
to  become  a  stranger  to  me.  I  promise  not  to  see  him, 
nor  write  to  him,  nor  in  any  way  communicate  with  him, 
or  influence  him.  We  part — utterly  and  entirely." 

"Eugen!    Impossible!    Hcrrgott!    Impossible!"  cried 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


227 


I,  coming  to  a  stop,  and  looking  incredulously  at  him. 
That  I  did  not  believe.  "Impossible!"  I  repeated  be- 
neath my  breath. 

"  By  faith  men  can  move  mountains,"  he  retorted. 

This,  then,  was  the  flavoring  which  made  the  cup  so 
intolerable. 

"  You  say  that  that  is  and  must  be  wrong  under  all  cir- 
cumstances," said  Eugen,  eying  me  steadily. 

I  paused.  I  could  almost  have  found  it  in  my  heart  to 
say,  "  Yes,  I  do."  But  my  faith  in  and  love  for  this  man 
had  grown  with  me  :  as  a  daily  prayer  grows  part  of  one's 
thoughts,  so  was  my  confidence  in  him  part  of  my  mind. 
He  looked  as  if  he  were  appealing  to  me  to  say  that  it 
must  be  wrong,  and  so  give  him  some  excuse  to  push  it 
aside.  But  I  could  not.  After  wavering  for  a  moment, 
I  answered : 

"  No.     I  am  sure  you  have  sufficient  reasons." 

"I  have.     God  knows  I  have." 

In  the  silence  that  ensued  my  mind  was  busy.  Eugen 
Courvoisier  was  not  a  religious  man,  as  the  popular  mean- 
ing of  religious  runs.  He  did  not  say  of  his  misfortune, 
"It  is  God's  will,"  nor  did  he  add,  "and  therefore  sweet 
to  me."  He  said  nothing  of  whose  will  it  was ;  but  I 
felt  that  had  that  cause  been  a  living  thing — had  it  been 
a  man,  for  instance,  he  would  have  gripped  it  and  fastened 
to  it  until  it  lay  dead  and  impotent,  and  he  could  set  his 
heel  upon  it. 

But  it  was  no  strong,  living,  tangible  thing.  It  was  a 
breathless  abstraction — a  something  existing  in  the  minds 
of  men,  and  which  they  call  "  Right ! "  and  being  that — 
not  an  outside  law  which  an  officer  of  the  law  could  en- 
force upon  him:  being  that  abstraction,  he  obeyed  it. 

As  for  saying  that  because  it  was  right  he  liked  it,  or 
felt  any  consolation  from  the  knowledge — he  never  once 
pretended  to  any  such  thing;  but,  true  to  his  character  of 
Child  of  the  World,  hated  it  with  a  hatred  as  strong  as 
his  love  to  the  creature  which  it  deprived  him  of.  Only — 
he  did  it.  He  is  not  alone  in  such  circumstances.  Others 
have  obeyed  and  will  again  obey  this  invisible  law  in  cir- 
cumstances as  anguishing  as  those  in  which  he  stood : 


228  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

will  steel  their  hearts  to  hardness  while  every  fibre  cries 
out,  "  Relent !  "  or  will,  like  him,  writhe  under  the  lash, 
shake  their  chained  hands  at  heaven,  and — submit. 

"  One  more  question,  Eugen.      When  ?  " 

"Soon." 

"A  year  would  seem  soon  to  any  of  us  three." 

"  In  a  very  short  time.  It  may  be  in  weeks :  it  may  be 
in  days.  Now,  Friedhelm,  have  a  little  pity  and  don't 
probe  any  further. " 

But  I  had  no  need  to  ask  any  more  questions.  The 
dreary  evening  passed  somehow  over — and  bed-time  came, 
and  the  morrow  dawned. 

For  us  three  it  brought  the  knowledge  that  for  an  in- 
definite time  retrospective  happiness  must  play  the  part  of 
sun  on  our  mental  horizon. 


CHAPTER  V. 

"My  Lady's  Glory."- 


" 


ONIGSALLEE,  No.  3,"  wrote  Adelaide  to  me, 
^  "is  the  house  which  has  been  taken  for  us.  We 
shall  be  there  on  Tuesday  evening." 

I  accepted  this  communication  in  my  own  sense,  and 
did  not  go  to  meet  Adelaide,  nor  visit  her  that  evening, 
but  wrote  a  card,  saying  I  would  come  on  the  following 
morning.  I  had  seen  the  house  which  had  been  taken 
for  Sir  Peter  and  Lady  Le  Marchant  —  a  large,  gloomy- 
looking  house,  with  a  tragedy  attached  to  it,  which  had 
stood  empty  ever  since  I  had  come  to  Elberthal. 

Up  the  fashionable  Konigsallee,  under  the  naked 
chestnut  avenue,  and  past  the  great  long  Caserne  and 
Exerzierplatz  —  a  way  on  which  I  did  not  as  a  rule  in- 
trude my  ancient  and  poverty-stricken  garments,  I  went 
on  the  morning  after  Adelaide's  arrival.  Lady  Le  Mar- 
chant  had  not  yet  left  her  room,  but  if  I  were  Miss  Wed- 
derburn  I  was  to  be  taken  to  her  immediately.  Then  I 
was  taken  up-stairs,  and  had  time  to  remark  upon  the 
contrast  between  my  sister's  surroundings  and  my  own, 
before  I  was  delivered  over  to  a  lady's-maid  —  French  in 
nationality  —  who  opened  a  door  and  announced  me  as 
Mademoiselle  Veddairebairne. 

I  had  a  rapid,  dim  impression  that  it  was  quite  the 
chamber  of  a  grande  dame,  in  the  midst  of  which  stood 
my  lady  herself,  having  slowly  risen  as  I  came  in. 

"At  last  you  have  condescended  to  come,"  said  the 
old  proud  curt  voice. 


230  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

"How  are  you,  Adelaide?"  said  I,  originally,  feeling 
that  any  display  of  emotion  would  be  unwelcome  and 
inappropriate,  and  moreover,  feeling  any  desire  to  in- 
dulge in  the  same  suddenly  evaporate. 

She  took  my  hand  loosely,  gave  me  a  little  chilly  kiss 
on  the  cheek,  and  then  held  me  off  at  arms'  length  to 
look  at  me. 

I  did  not  speak.  I  could  think  of  nothing  agreeable 
to  say.  The  only  words  that  rose  to  my  lips  were,  "  How 
very  ill  you  look!"  and  I  wisely  concluded  not  to  say 
them.  She  was  very  beautiful,  and  looked  prouder  and 
more  imperious  than  ever.  But  she  was  changed.  I 
could  not  tell  what  it  was.  I  could  find  no  name  for  the 
subtle  alteration:  erelong  I  knew  only  too  well  what  it 
was.  Then,  I  only  knew  that  she  was  different  from  what 
she  had  been,  and  different  in  a  way  that  aroused  tenfold 
all  my  vague  forebodings. 

She  was  wasted  too — had  gone,  for  her,  quite  thin; 
and  the  repressed  restlessness  of  her  eyes  made  a  disa- 
greeable impression  upon  me.  Was  she  perhaps  wasted 
with  passion  and  wicked  thoughts  ?  She  looked  as  if  it 
would  not  have  taken  much  to  bring  the  smoldering  fire 
into  a  blaze  of  full  fury — as  if  fire  and  not  blood  ran  in 
her  veins. 

She  was  in  a  loose  silk  dressing-gown,  which  fell  in 
long  folds  about  her  stately  figure.  Her  thick  black  hair 
was  twisted  into  a  knot  about  her  head.  She  was  sur- 
rounded on  all  sides  with  rich  and  costly  things.  All  the 
old  severe  simplicity  of  style  had  vanished — it  seemed  as 
if  she  had  gratified  every  passing  fantastic  wish  or  whim 
of  her  restless,  reckless  spirit,  and  the  result  was  a  curious 
medley  of  the  ugly,  grotesque,  ludicrous  and  beautiful — 
a  feverish  dream  of  Cleopatra-like  luxury,  in  the  midst 
of  which  she  stood,  as  beautiful  and  sinuous  as  a  serpent, 
and  looking  as  if  she  could  be,  upon  occasion,  as  poison- 
ous as  the  same. 

She  looked  me  over  from  head  to  foot  with  piercing 
eyes,  and  then  said,  half  scornfully,  half  enviously : 

"  How  well  a  stagnant  life  seems  to  suit  some  people ! 
Now  you — you  are  immensely  improved — unspeakably 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN,  231 

improved.  You  have  grown  into  a  pretty  woman — more 
than  a  pretty  woman.  I  shouldn't  have  thought  a  few 
months  could  make  such  an  alteration  in  any  one." 

Her  words  struck  me  as  a  kind  of  satire  upon  herself. 

"  I  might  say  the  same  to  you,"  said  I,  constrainedly. 
"  I  think  you  are  very  much  altered." 

Indeed  I  felt  strangely  ill  at  ease  with  the  beautiful 
creature  who,  I  kept  trying  to  convince  myself,  was  my 
sister  Adelaide,  but  who  seemed  farther  apart  from  me 
than  ever.  But  the  old  sense  of  fascination  which  she 
had  been  wont  to  exercise  over  me  returned  again  in  all 
or  in  more  than  its  primitive  strength. 

"  I  want  to  talk  to  you,"  said  she,  forcing  me  into  a 
deep  easy-chair.  "  I  have  millions  of  things  to  ask  you. 
Take  off  your  hat  and  mantle.  YOU  must  stay  all  day. 
Heavens!  how  shabby  you  are!  I  never  saw  anything  so 
worn  out — and  yet  your  dress  suits  you,  and  you  look 
nice  in  it."  (She  sighed  deeply.)  "Nothing  suits  me 
now.  Formerly  I  looked  well  in  everything.  I  should 
have  looked  well  in  rags,  and  people  would  have  turned 
to  look  after  me.  Now,  whatever  I  put  on  makes  me 
look  hideous." 

"  Nonsense! " 

"  It  does —  And  I  am  glad  of  it,"  she  added,  closing 
her  lips  as  if  she  closed  in  some  bitter  joy. 

"  I  wish  you  would  tell  me  why  you  have  come  here," 
I  inquired,  innocently.  "I  was  so  astonished.  It  was 
the  last  place  I  should  have  thought  of  your  coming  to." 

"  Naturally.  But  you  see  Sir  Peter  adores  me  so  that 
he  hastens  to  gratify  my  smallest  wish.  I  expressed  a 
desire  one  day  to  see  you,  and  two  days  afterwards  we 
were  en  route.  He  said  I  should  have  my  wish.  Sister- 
ly love  was  a  beautiful  thing,  and  he  felt  it  his  duty  to  en- 
courage it." 

I  looked  at  her,  and  could  not  decide  whether  she 
were  in  jest  or  earnest.  If  she  were  in  jest,  it  was  but 
a  sorry  kind  of  joke — if  in  earnest,  she  chose  a  disagreea- 
bly flippant  manner  of  expressing  herself. 

"Sir  Peter  has  great  faith  in  annoying  and  thwarting 
me,"  she  went  on.  "He  has  been  looking  better  and 
more  cheerful  ever  since  we  left  Rome." 


2,2  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

"But  Adelaide — if  you  wished  to  leave  Rome — " 

"But  I  did  not  wish  to  leave  Rome.  I  wished  to 
stay — so  we  came  away,  you  know." 

The  suppressed  rage  and  hatred  in  her  tone  made  me 
feel  uncomfortable.  I  avoided  speaking,  but  I  could  not 
altogether  avoid  looking  at  her.  Our  eyes  met,  and 
Adelaide  burst  into  a  peal  of  harsh  laughter. 

"Oh,  your  face,  May!  It  is  a  study.  I  had  a  par- 
ticular objection  to  coming  to  Elberthal,  therefore.  Sir 
Peter  instantly  experienced  a  particular  desire  to  come. 
When  you  are  married  you  will  understand  these  things. 
I  was  almost  enjoying  myself  in  Rome;  I  suppose  Sir 
Peter  was  afraid  that  familiarity  might  bring  dislike,  or 
that  if  we  stayed  too  long  I  might  feel  it  dull.  This  is 
a  gay,  lively  place,  I  believe — we  came  here,  and  for 
aught  I  know  we  are  going  to  stay  here." 

She  laughed  again,  and  I  sat  aghast.  I  had  been  mis- 
erable about  Adelaide's  marriage,  but  I  had  very  greatly 
trusted  in  what  she  had  prognosticated  about  being 
able  to  do  what  she  liked  with  him.  I  began  now  to 
think  that  there  must  have  been  some  miscalculation — 
that  she  had  mistaken  the  metal  and  found  it  not  quite 
so  ductile  as  she  had  expected.  I  knew  enough  of  her 
to  be  aware  that  I  was  probably  the  first  person  to  whom 
she  had  spoken  in  such  a  manner,  and  that  not  even  to 
me  would  she  have  so  spoken  unless  some  strong  feeling 
had  prompted  her  to  it.  This  made  me  still  more  un- 
easy. She  held  so  fast  by  the  fine  polish  of  the  outside 
of  the  cup  and  platter.  Very  likely  the  world  in  general 
supposed  that  she  and  Sir  Peter  were  a  model  couple. 

"I  am  glad  you  are  here,"  she  pursued.  "It  is  a 
relief  to  have  some  one  else  than  Arkwright  to  speak  to." 

"  Who  is  Arkwright  ?  " 

"  Sir  Peter's  secretary — a  very  good  sort  of  boy.     He 
knows  all  about  our  domestic  bliss  and  other  concerns — ' 
because  he  can't  help.     Sir  Peter  tells  him — " 

A  hand  on  the  door-handle  outside.  A  pause  ere  the 
persons  came  in,  for  Sir  Peter's  voice  was  audible,  giving 
directions  to  some  one;  probably  the  secretary  of  whom 
Adelaide  had  spoken.  She  started  violently:  the  color 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN^ 


233 


fled  from  her  face;  pale  dismay  painted  itself  for  a 
moment  upon  her  lips,  but  only  for  a  moment.  In  the 
next  she  was  outwardly  herself  again.  But  the  hand 
trembled  which  passed  her  handkerchief  over  her  lips. 

The  door  was  fully  opened,  and  Sir  Peter  came  in. 

Yes;  that  was  the  same  face,  the  same  penthouse  of 
ragged  eyebrow  over  the  cold  and  snaky  eye  beneath,  the 
same  wolfish  mouth  and  permanent  hungry  smile.  But 
he  looked  better,  stouter,  stronger;  more  cheerful.  It 
seemed  as  if  my  lady's  society  had  done  him  a  world  of 
good,  and  acted  as  a  kind  of  elixir  of  life. 

I  observed  Adelaide.  As  he  came  in  her  eyes  drop- 
ped; her  hand  closed  tightly  over  the  handkerchief  she 
held,  crushing  it  together  in  her  grasp;  she  held  her 
breath;  then,  recovered,  she  faced  him. 

"Heyday!  Whom  have  we  here?"  he  asked,  in  a 
voice  which  time  and  a  residence  in  hearing  of  the  lan- 
guage of  music  had  not  mollified.  "Whom  have  we 
here?  Your  dressmaker,  my  lady?  Have  you  had  to 
send  for  a  dressmaker  already?  Ha!  what?  Your  sis- 
ter ?  Impossible !  Miss  May,  I  am  delighted  to  see  you 
again !  Are  you  very  well  ?  You  look  a  little — a — shab- 
by, one  might  almost  say,  my  dear — a  little  seedy,  hey  ?  " 

I  had  no  answer  ready  for  this  winning  greeting. 

"  Rather  like  my  lady  before  she  was  my  lady,"  he  con- 
tinued, pleasantly,  as  his  eyes  roved  over  the  room,  over 
its  furniture,  over  us. 

There  was  power — a  horrible  kind  of  strength  and  vi- 
tality in  that  figure — a  crushing  impression  of  his  potency 
to  make  one  miserable,  conveyed  in  the  strong,  rasping 
voice.  Quite  a  different  Sir  Peter  from  my  erstwhile  woo- 
er. He  was  a  masculine,  strong,  planning  creature,  whose 
force  of  will  was  able  to  crush  that  of  my  sister  as  easily 
as  her  forefinger  might  crush  a  troublesome  midge.  He 
was  not  blind  or  driveling;  he  could  reason,  plot,  argue, 
concoct  a  systematic  plan  for  revenge,  and  work  it  out 
fully  and  in  detail;  he  was  able  at  once  to  grasp  the 
broadest  bearing  and  the  minute  details  of  a  position,  and 
to  act  upon  their  intimations  with  crushing  accuracy.  He 
was  calm,  decided,  keen,  and  all  in  a  certain  small, 


234  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

• 

bounded,  positive  way  which  made  him  all  the  more  effi- 
cient as  a  ruling  factor  in  this  social  sphere;  where  small, 
bounded,  positive  strength,  without  keen  sympathies  save 
in  the  one  direction — self — and  without  idea  of  generosity, 
save  with  regard  to  its  own  merits,  pays  better  than  a 
higher  kind  of  strength — better  than  the  strength  of  Joan 
of  Arc,  or  Saint  Stephen,  or  Christ. 

This  was  the  real  Sir  Peter,  and  before  the  revelation  I 
stood  aghast.  And  that  look  in  Adelaide's  eyes,  that  tone 
in  her  voice,  that  restrained  spring  in  her  movements, 
would  have  been  rebellion,  revolution,  but  in  the  act  of 
breaking  forth  it  became — fear.  She  had  been  outwitted, 
most  thoroughly  and  completely.  She  had  got  a  jailer 
and  a  prison.  She  feared  the  former,  and  every  tradition 
of  her  life  bade  her  remain  in  the  latter. 

Sir  Peter,  pleasantly  exhilarated  by  my  confusion  and  my 
lady's  sullen  silence,  proceeded  with  an  agreeable  smile: 

"  Are  you  never  coming  down-stairs,  madam  ?  I  have 
been  deprived  long  enough  of  the  delights  of  your  socie- 
ty. Come  down!  I  want  you  to  read  to  me." 

"  I  am  engaged,  as  you  may  see,"  she  answered  in  a 
low  voice  of  opposition. 

"  Then  the  engagement  must  be  deferred.  There  is  a 
great  deal  of  reading  to  do.  There  is  the  Times  for  a 
week." 

"I  hate  the  Times,  and  I  don't  understand  it." 

"  So  much  the  more  reason  why  you  should  learn  to  do 
so.  In  half  an  hour,"  said  Sir  Peter,  consulting  his  watch, 
"  I  shall  be  ready,  or  say  in  quarter  of  an  hour." 

"  Absurd !  I  cannot  be  ready  in  quarter  of  an  hour. 
"Where  is  Mr.  Arkwright?" 

'•  What  is  Mr.  Arkwright  to  you,  my  dear  ?  You  may 
be  sure  that  Mr.  Arkwright's  time  is  not  being  wasted. 
If  his  mamma  knew  what  he  were  doing  she  would  be 
quite  satisfied — oh,  quite.  In  quarter  of  an  hour." 

He  was  leaving  the  room,  but  paused  at  the  door,  with 
a  suspicious  look. 

"  Miss  May,  it  is  a  pity  for  you  to  go  away.  It  will  do 
you  good  to  see  your  sister,  I  am  sure.  Pray  spend  the 
day  with  us.  Now,  my  lady,  waste  no  more  time." 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


235 


With  that  he  finally  departed.  Adelaide's  face  was 
white,  but  she  did  not  address  me.  She  rang  for  her 
maid. 

"  Dress  my  hair,  Toinette,  and  do  it  as  quickly  as  pos- 
sible. Is  my  dress  ready?"  was  all  she  said. 

"Mais  oui,  madame" 

"Quick!"  she  repeated.  "You  have  only  quarter  of 
an  hour."  t 

Despite  the  suppressed  cries,  expostulations,  and  an- 
nouncements that  it  was  impossible,  Adelaide  was  dressed 
in  quarter  of  an  hour. 

"You  will  stay,  May?"  said  she;  and  I  knew  it  was 
only  the  presence  of  Toinette  which  restrained  her  from 
urgently  imploring  me  to  stay. 

I  remained,  though  not  all  day:  only  until  it  was  time 
to  go  and  have  my  lesson  from  Von  Francius.  During 
my  stay,  however,  I  had  ample  opportunity  to  observe 
how  things  were. 

Sir  Peter  appeared  to  have  lit  upon  a  congenial  occu- 
pation somewhat  late  in  life,  or  perhaps  previous  practice 
had  made  him  an  adept  in  it.  His  time  was  fully  occu- 
pied in  carrying  out  a  series  of  experiments  upon  his  wife's 
pride,  with  a  view  to  humble  and  bring  it  to  the  ground. 
If  he  did  not  fully  succeed  in  that,  he  succeeded  in  mak- 
ing her  hate  him  as  scarcely  ever  was  man  hated  before. 

They  had  now  been  married  some  two  or  three  months, 
and  had  forsworn  all  semblance  of  a  pretense  at  unity  or 
concord.  She  thwarted  him  as  much  as  she  could,  and 
defied  him  as  far  as  she  dared.  He  played  round  and 
round  his  victim,  springing  upon  her  at  last,  with  some 
look,  or  word,  or  hint,  or  smile,  which  meant  something — 
I  know  not  what — that  cowed  her. 

Oh,  it  was  a  pleasant  household ! — a  cheerful,  amiable 
scene  of  connubial  love,  in  which  this  fair  woman  of  two- 
and-twenty  found  herself,  with  every  prospect  of  its  con- 
tinuing for  an  indefinite  number  of  years;  for  the  Le  Mar- 
chants  were  a  long-lived  family,  and  Sir  Peter  ailed  noth- 
ing. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

"  Wenn  Menschen  aus  einander  gehen, 
So  sagen  sie,  Auf  Wiedersehen! 
Auf  Wiedersehen!  " 

T^UGEN  had  said,  "Very  soon — it  may  be  weeks,  it 
£j,  may  be  days,  "  and  had  begged  me  not  to  inquire 
further  into  the  matter.  Seeing  his  anguish,  I  had  re- 
frained; but  when  two  or  three  days  had  passed,  and 
nothing  was  done  or  said,  I  began  to  hope  that  the  part- 
ing might  not  be  deferred  even  a  few  weeks;  for  I  believe 
the  father  suffered,  and  with  him  the  child,  enough  each 
day  to  wipe  out  years  of  transgression. 

It  was  impossible  to  hide  from  Sigmund  that  some 
great  grief  threatened,  or  had  already  descended  upon  his 
father,  and  therefore  upon  him.  The  child's  sympathy 
with  the  man's  nature,  with  every  mood  and  feeling, — I 
had  almost  said  his  intuitive  understanding  of  his  father's 
very  thoughts,  was  too  keen  and  intense  to  be  hoodwink- 
ed or  turned  aside.  He  did  not  behave  like  other  chil- 
dren— of  course — versteht  sich,  as  Eugen  said  to  me  with 
a  dreary  smile.  He  did  not  hang  about  his  father's  neck, 
imploring  to  hear  what  was  the  matter;  he  did  not  weep 
or  wail,  or  make  complaints.  After  that  first  moment  of 
uncontrollable  pain  and  anxiety,  when  he  had  gone  into 
the  room  whose  door  was  closed  upon  him,  and  in  which 
Eugen  had  not  told  him  all  that  was  coming,  he  dis- 
played no  violent  emotion;  but  he  did  what  was  to  Eugen 
and  me  much  more  heart-breaking — brooded  silently; 
grew  every  day  wanner  and  thinner,  and  spent  long  inter- 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


237 


vals  in  watching  his  father,  with  eyes  which  nothing  could 
divert  and  nothing  deceive.  If  Eugen  tried  to  be  cheer- 
ful, to  put  on  a  little  gayety  of  demeanor  which  he  did  not 
feel  in  his  heart,  Sigmund  made  no  answer  to  it,  but  con- 
tinued to  look  with  the  same  solemn,  large  and  mournful 
gaze. 

His  father's  grief  was  eating  into  his  own  young  heart. 
He  asked  not  what  it  was ;  but  both  Eugen  and  I  knew 
that  in  time,  if  it  went  on  long  enough,  he  would  die  of 
it.  The  picture,  "  Innocence  Dying  of  a  Blood-stain," 
which  Hawthorne  has  suggested  to  us,  may  have  its  pro- 
totypes and  counterparts  in  unsuspected  places.  Here 
was  one.  Nor  did  Sigmund,  as  some  others,  children 
both  of  larger  and  smaller  growth,  might  have  done,  turn 
to  me  and  ask  me  to  tell  him  the  meaning  of  the  sad 
change  which  had  crept  silently  and  darkly  into  our  lives. 
He  out-spartaned  the  Spartan  in  many  ways.  His  father 
had  not  chosen  to  tell  him ;  he  would  die  rather  than  ask 
the  meaning  of  the  silence. 

One  night — when  some  three  days  had  passed  since  the 
letter  had  come — as  Eugen  and  I  sat  alone,  it  struck  me 
that  I  heard  a  weary  turning  over  in  the  little  bed  in  the 
next  room,  and  a  stifled  sob  coming  distinctly  to  my  ears. 
I  lifted  my  head.  Eugen  had  heard  too ;  he  was  look- 
ing, with  an  expression  of  pain  and  indecision,  towards 
the  door. 

With  a  vast  effort — the  greatest  my  regard  for  him  had 
yet  made — I  took  it  upon  myself,  laid  my  hand  on  his 
arm  and  coercing  him  again  into  the  chair  from  which  he 
had  half  risen,  whispered : 

"I  will  tell  him.     You  cannot.     Nicht  wahr ? " 

A  look  was  the  only,  but  a  very  sufficient  answer. 

I  went  into  the  inner  room  and  closed  the  door.  A 
Jim  whiteness  of  moonlight  struggled  through  the  shut- 
ters, and  very,  very  faintly  showed  me  the  outline  of  the 
child  who  was  dear  to  me.  Stooping  down  beside  him,  I 
asked  if  he  were  awake. 

"  ya,  ich  wache"  he  replied  in  a  patient,  resigned  kind 
of  small  voice. 

"  Why  dost  thou  not  sleep,  Sigmund  ?  Art  thou  not 
well?" 


23g  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

"No,  I  am  not  well,"  he  answered;  but  with  an  ex- 
pression  of  double  meaning.  " Mir  isfs  nicht  wohl" 

"  What  ails  thee  ?  " 

"  If  you  know  what  ails  him,  you  know  what  ails  me." 

"Do  you  not  know  yourself?"  I  asked. 

"  No,"  said  Sigmund,  with  a  short  sob.  "  He  says  he 
cannot  tell  me." 

I  slipped  upon  my  knees  beside  the  little  bed,  and 
paused  a  moment.  I  am  not  ashamed  to  say  that  I 
prayed  to  something  which  in  my  mind  existed  outside 
all  earthly  things — perhaps  to  the  Freude  which  Schiller 
sang  and  Beethoven  composed  to — for  help  in  the  hard- 
est task  of  my  life. 

"  Cannot  tell  me."  No  wonder  he  could  not  tell  that 
soft-eyed,  clinging  warmth;  that  subtle  mixture  of  fire 
and  softness,  spirit  and  gentleness — that  spirit  which  in 
the  years  of  trouble  they  had  passed  together  had  grown 
part  of  his  very  nature — that  they  must  part !  No  won- 
der that  the  father,  upon  whom  the  child  built  his  every 
idea  of  what  was  great  and  good,  beautiful,  right  and 
true  in  every  shape  and  form,  could  not  say,  "You  shall 
not  stay  with  me;  you  shall  be  thrust  forth  to  strangers; 
and,  moreover,  I  will  not  see  you  nor  speak  to  you,  nor 
shall  you  hear  my  name;  and  this  I  will  do  without 
telling  you  why" — that  he  could  not  say  this — what  had 
the  man  been  who  could  have  said  it  ? 

As  I  kneeled  in  the  darkness  by  Sigmund's  little  bed, 
and  felt  his  pillow  wet  with  his  silent  tears,  and  his  hot 
cheek  touching  my  hand,  I  knew  it  all.  I  believe  I  felt 
for  once  as  a  man  who  has  begotten  a  child  and  must 
hurt  it,  repulse  it,  part  from  it,  feels. 

"  No,  my  child,  he  cannot  tell  thee,  because  he  loves 
thee  so  dearly,"  said  I.  "  But  I  can  tell  thee ;  I  have 
his  leave  to  tell  thee,  Sigmund." 

"Friedel?" 

"  Thou  art  a  very  little  boy,  but  thou  art  not  like  other 
boys;  thy  father  is  not  just  like  other  fathers." 

"I  know  it." 

"  He  is  very  sad." 

"Yes." 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


239 


"  And  his  life  which  he  has  to  live  will  be  a  sad  one." 

The  child  began  to  weep  again.  I  had  to  pause. 
How  was  I  to  open  my  lips  to  instruct  this  baby  upon 
the  fearful,  profound  abyss  of  a  subject — the  evil  and  the 
sorrow  that  are  in  the  world — how,  how  force  those  little 
tender,  bare  feet,  from  the  soft  grass  on  to  the  rough 
up-hill  path  all  strewed  with  stones,  and  all  rugged  with 
ups  and  downs  ?  It  was  horribly  cruel. 

"  Life  is  very  sad  sometimes,  mein  Sigmund." 

"Is  it?" 

"Yes.  Some  people,  too,  are  much  sadder  than  others. 
I  think  thy  father  is  one  of  those  people.  Perhaps  thou 
art  to  be  another." 

"What  my  father  is  I  will  be,"  said  he,  softly;  and  I 
thought  that  it  was  another  and  a  holier  version  of 
Eugen's  words  to  me,  wrung  out  of  the  inner  bitterness 
of  his  heart.  "The  sins  of  the  fathers  shall  be  visited 
upon  the  children,  even  unto  the  third  and  fourth  genera- 
tion, whether  they  deserve  it  or  not."  The  child,  who 
knew  nothing  of  the  ancient  saying,  merely  said  with 
love  and  satisfaction  swelling  his  voice  to  fullness,  "What 
my  father  is,  I  will  be." 

"Couldst  thou  give  up  something  very  dear  for  his 
sake?" 

"  What  a  queer  question  ! "  said  Sigmund.  "  I  want 
nothing  when  I  am  with  him." 

"  JEt,  mein' Kind!  Thou  dost  not  know  what  I  mean. 
What  is  the  greatest  joy  of  thy  life  ?  To  be  near  thy 
father  and  see  him,  hear  his  voice,  and  touch  him,  and 
feel  him  near  thee ;  nicht  ?  " 

"Yes,"  said  he,  in  a  scarcely  audible  whisper. 

There  was  a  pause,  during  which  I  was  racking  my 
brains  to  think  of  some  way  of  introducing  the  rest  with- 
out shocking  him  too  much,  when  suddenly  he  said,  in  a 
clear,  low  voice : 

"That  is  it.  He  would  never  let  me  leave  him,  and  he 
would  never  leave  me." 

Silence  again  for  a  few  moments,  which  seemed  to 
deepen  some  sneaking  shadow  in  the  boy's  mind,  for  he 
repeated  through  clenched  teeth,  and  in  a  voice  which 
fought  hard  against  conviction,  "  Never,  never,  never ! " 


240  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

"Sigmund — never  of  his  own  will.  But  remember 
what  1  said,  that  he  is  sad,  and  there  is  something  in  his 
life  which  makes  him  not  only  unable  to  do  what  he  likes, 
but  obliged  to  do  exactly  what  he  does  not  like — what  he 
most  hates  and  fears — to — to  part  from  thee." 

"IVein,  nein,  neinf"  said  he.  "Who  can  make  him  do 
anything  he  does  not  wish?  Who  can  take  me  away 
from  him?" 

"  I  do  not  know.  I  only  know  that  it  must  be  so. 
There  is  no  escaping  from  it,  and  no  getting  out  of  it. 
It  is  horrible,  but  it  is  so.  Sometimes,  Sigmund,  there 
are  things  in  the  world  like  this." 

"  The  world  must  be  a  very  cruel  place,"  he  said,  as  if 
first  struck  with  that  fact. 

"  Now  dost  thou  understand,  Sigmund,  why  he  did  not 
speak  ?     Couldst  thou  have  told  him  such  a  thing  ?  " 
"  Where  is  he  ?  " 

"  There,  in  the  next  room,  and  very  sad  for  thee." 
Sigmund,  before  I  knew  what  he  was  thinking  of,  was 
out  of  bed  and  had  opened  the  door.  I  saw  that  Eugea 
looked  up,  saw  the  child  standing  in  the  door-way,  sprang 
up,  and  Sigmund  bounded  to  meet  him.  A  cry  as  of  a 
great  terror  came  from  the  child.  Self-restraint,  so  long 
maintained,  broke  down ;  he  cried  in  a  loud,  frightened 
voice : 

" Mein  Vater,  Friedel  says  I  must  leave  thee!"  and 
burst  into  a  storm  of  sobs  and  crying  such  as  I  had  never 
before  known  him  yield  to.  Eugen  folded  him  in  his 
arms,  laid  his  head  upon  his  breast,  and  clasping  him 
very  closely  to  him,  paced  about  the  room  with  him  in 
silence,  until  the  first  fit  of  grief  was  over.  I,  from  the 
dark  room,  watched  them  in  a  kind  of  languor,  for  I  was 
weary,  as  though  I  had  gone  through  some  physical 
struggle. 

They  passed  to  and  fro  like  some  moving  dream.  Bit 
by  bit  the  child  learned  from  his  father's  lips  the  pitiless 
truth,  down  to  the  last  bitter  drop :  that  the  parting  was 
to  be  complete,  and  they  were  not  to  see  each  other. 

"  But  never,  never  ? "  asked  Sigmund  in  a  voice  of 
terror  and  pain  mingled. 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


241 


"  When  thou  art  a  man  that  will  depend  upon  thyself," 
said  Eugen.  "Thou  wilt  have  to  choose." 

"  Choose  what  ?  " 

"Whether  thou  wilt  see  me  again." 

"  When  I  am  a  man  may  I  choose  ?  "  he  asked,  raising 
his  head  with  sudden  animation. 

"Yes;  I  shall  see  to  that." 

"  Oh,  very  well.  I  have  chosen  now,"  said  Sigmund, 
and  the  thought  gave  him  visible  joy  and  relief. 

Eugen  kissed  him  passionately.  Blessed  ignorance  of 
the  hardening  influences  of  the  coming  years !  Blessed 
tenderness  of  heart  and  singleness  of  affection  which  could 
see  no  possibility  that  circumstances  might  make  the  ac- 
quaintance of  a  now  loved  and  adored  superior  being 
appear  undesirable !  And  blessed  sanguineness  of  five 
years  old,  which  could  bridge  the  gulf  between  then  and 
manhood,  and  cry,  Auf  Wiedersehen! 


During  the  next  few  days  more  letters  were  exchanged. 
Eugen  received  one  which  he  answered.  Part  of  the  an- 
swer he  showed  to  me,  and  it  ran  thus : 

"  I  consent  to  this,  but  only  upon  one  condition,  which 
is  that  when  my  son  is  eighteen  years  old,  you  tell  him 
all,  and  give  him  his  choice  whether  he  see  me  again  or 
not.  My  word  is  given  not  to  interfere  in  the  matter,  and 
I  can  trust  yours  when  you  promise  that  it  shall  be  as  I 
stipulate.  I  want  your  answer  upon  this  point,  which  is 
very  simple,  and  the  single  condition  I  make.  It  is,  how- 
ever, one  which  I  cannot  and  will  not  waive." 

"  Thirteen  years,  Eugen,"  said  I. 

"  Yes ;  in  thirteen  years  I  shall  be  forty-three." 

"  You  will  let  me  know  what  the  answer  to  that  is,"  I 
went  on. 

He  nodded.     By  return  of  post  the  answer  came. 

"It  is  'yes',"  said  he,  and  paused.  "The  day  after 
to-morrow  he  is  to  go." 

"  Not  alone,  surely  ?  " 

"  No ;  some  one  will  come  for  him." 

I  heard  some  of  the  instructions  he  gave  his  boy. 
16 


242  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

"  There  is  one  man  where  you  are  going,  whom  I  wish 
you  to  obey  as  you  would  me,  Sigmund,"  he  told  him. 

"  Is  he  like  thee  ?  " 

"  No ;  much  better  and  wiser  than  I  am.  But,  remem- 
ber, he  never  commands  twice.  Thou  must  not  question 
and  delay  as  thou  dost  with  thy  weak-minded  old  father. 
He  is  the  master  in  the  place  thou  art  going  to." 

"  Is  it  far  from  here  ?  " 

"  Not  exceedingly  far." 

"  Hast  thou  been  there  ?  " 

"  Oh  yes,"  said  Eugen  in  a  peculiar  tone,  "  often." 

"  What  must  I  call  this  man  ?  "  inquired  Sigmund. 

"  He  will  tell  thee  that.  Do  thou  obey  him  and  en- 
deavor to  do  what  he  wishes,  and  so  thou  mayst  know 
thou  art  best  pleasing  me." 

"  And  when  I  am  a  man  I  can  choose  to  see  thee 
again.  But  where  wilt  thou  be  ?  " 

';  When  the  time  comes  thou  wilt  soon  find  me  if  it  is 
necessary —  And  thy  music,"  pursued  Eugen.  "  Remem- 
ber that  in  all  troubles  that  may  come  to  thee,  and  what- 
ever thou  mayst  pass  through,  there  is  one  great,  beauti- 
ful goddess  who  abides  above  the  troubles  of  men,  and  is 
often  most  beautiful  in  the  hearts  that  are  most  troubled. 
Remember — whom  ?  " 

"  Beethoven,"  was  the  prompt  reply. 

"  Just  so.  And  hold  fast  to  the  service  of  the  goddess 
Music,  the  most  beautiful  thing  in  the  world." 

"  And  thou  art  a  musician,"  said  Sigmund,  with  a  little 
laugh,  as  if  it  "understood  itself"  that  his  father  should 
naturally  be  a  priest  of  "  the  most  beautiful  thing  in  the 
world." 

I  hurry  over  that  short  time  before  the  parting  came. 
Eugen  said  to  me  : 

"  They  are  sending  for  him — an  old  servant.  I  am  not 
afraid  to  trust  him  with  him." 

And  one  morning  he  came — the  old  servant.  Sigmund 
happened  at  the  moment  not  to  be  in  the  sitting-room ; 
Eugen  and  I  were.  There  was  a  knock,  and  in  answer 
to  our  Herein  !  there  entered  an  elderly  man  of  soldierly 
appearance,  with  a  grizzled  mustache,  and  stiff,  military 


•      THE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  243 

bearing ;  he  was  dressed  in  a  very  plain,  but  very  hand- 
some livery,  and  on  entering  the  room  and  seeing  Eugen, 
he  paused  just  within  the  door,  and  saluted  with  a  look 
of  deep  respect ;  nor  did  he  attempt  to  advance  further. 
Eugen  had  turned  very  pale. 

It  struck  me  that  he  might  have  something  to  say  to 
this  messenger  of  fate,  and  with  some  words  to  that  effect 
I  rose  to  leave  them  together.  Eugen  laid  his  hand  upon 
my  arm. 

"  Sit  still,  Friedhelm."  And  turning  to  the  man,  he 
added :  "  How  were  all  when  you  left,  Heinrich  ?  " 

«  Well,  Herr  Gr " 

"  Courvoisier." 
"  All  were  well,  mein  Herr." 
"  Wait  a  short  time,"  said  he. 

A  silent  inclination  on  the  part  of  the  man.  Eugen 
went  into  the  inner  room  where  Sigmund  was,  and  closed 
the  door.  There  was  silence.  How  long  did  it  endure  ? 
What  was  passing  there  ?  What  throes  of  parting  ? 
What  grief  not  to  be  spoken  or  described  ? 

Meanwhile  the  elderly  man-servant  remained  in  his 
sentinel  attitude,  and  with  fixed  expressionless  counte- 
nance, within  the  door-way.  Was  the  time  long  to  him, 
or  short  ? 

At  last  the  door  opened,  and  Sigmund  came  out  alone. 
God  help  us  all !  It  is  terrible  to  see  such  an  expression 
upon  a  child's  soft  face.  White  and  set  and  worn  as  if 
with  years  of  suffering  was  the  beautiful  little  face.  The 
elderly  man  started,  surprised  from  his  impassiveness,  as 
the  child  came  into  the  room.  An  irrepressible  flash  of 
emotion  crossed  his  face ;  he  made  a  step  forward.  Sig- 
mund seemed  as  if  he  did  not  see  us.  He  was  making  a 
mechanical  way  to  the  door,  when  I  interrupted  him. 

"  Sigmund,  do  not  forget  thy  old  Friedhelm !  "  I  cried, 
clasping  him  in  my  arms,  and  kissing  his  little  pale  face, 
thinking  of  the  day,  three  years  ago,  when  his  father  had 
brought  him  wrapped  up  in  the  plaid  on  that  wet  after- 
noon, and  my  heart  had  gone  out  to  him. 

"  Lieber  Friedhelm ! "  he  said,  returning  my  embrace. 
"  Love  my  father  when  I — am  gone.  And — auf — auf- — 
Wiederschen .' 


244 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


He  loosed  his  arms  from  round  my  neck  and  went  up 
to  the  man,  saying : 

"  I  am  ready." 

The  large  horny  hand  clasped  round  the  small  delicate 
one.  The  servant-man  turned,  and  with  a  stiff,  respectful 
bow  to  me,  led  Sigmund  from  the  room.  The  door 
closed  after  him — he  was  gone.  The  light  of  two  lonely 
lives  was  put  out.  Was  our  darling  right  or  wrong  in 
that  persistent  auf  Wiedersehen  of  his  ? 


CHAPTER  VII. 

"  Resignation !  Welch'  elendes  Htilfsmittel !  und  doch  bleibt  es 
mir  das  einzig  Uebrige." 

Briefe  BEETHOVEN'S. 

OEVERAL  small  events  which  took  place  at  this  time 
^j  had  all  their  indirect  but  strong  bearing  on  the  his- 
tories of  the  characters  in  this  veracious  narrative.  The 
great  concert  of  the  Passions-musik  of  Bach  came  off  on 
the  very  evening  of  Sigmund's  departure.  It  was,  I  con- 
fess, with  some  fear  and  trembling  that  I  went  to  call 
Eugen  to  his  duties,  for  he  had  not  emerged  from  his  own 
room  since  he  had  gone  into  it  to  send  Sigmund  away. 

He  raised  his  face  as  I  came  in ;  he  was  sitting  looking 
out  of  the  window,  and  told  me  afterwards  that  he  had 
sat  there,  he  believed,  ever  since  he  had  been  unable  to 
catch  another  glimpse  of  the  carriage  which  bore  his  dar- 
ling away  from  him. 

"What  is  it,  Friedel?"  he  asked,  when  I  came  in. 

I  suggested  in  a  subdued  tone  that  the  concert  began 
in  half  an  hour. 

"Ah,  true!"  said  he,  rising;  "I  must  get  ready.  Let 
me  see,  what  is  it?" 

"  The  Passions-musik" 

"To  be  sure!  Most  appropriate  music!  I  feel  as  if  I 
could  write  a  Passion  Music  myself  just  now." 

We  had  but  to  cross  the  road  from  our  dwelling  to  the 
concert-room.  As  we  entered  the  corridor  two  ladies  also 
stepped  into  it  from  a  very  grand  carriage.  They  were 
accompanied  by  a  young  man,  who  stood  a  little  to  one 


246 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


side  to  let  them  pass;  and  as  they  came  up  and  we  came 
up,  Von  Francius  came  up  too. 

One  of  the  ladies  was  May  Wedderburn,  who  was 
dressed  in  black,  and  looked  exquisitely  lovely  to  my 
eyes,  and,  I  felt,  to  some  others,  with  her  warm  auburn 
hair  in  shining  coils  upon  her  head.  The  other  was  a 
woman  in  whose  pale,  magnificent  face  I  traced  some  like- 
ness to  our  fair  singer,  but  she  was  different;  colder, 
grander,  more  severe. 

It  so  happened  that  the  ladies  barred  the  way  as  we  ar- 
rived, and  we  had  to  stand  by  for  a  few  moments  as  Von 
Francius  shook  hands  with  Miss  Wedderburn,  and  asked 
her  smilingly  if  she  were  in  good  voice. 

She  answered  in  the  prettiest  broken  German  I  ever 
heard,  and  then  turned  to  the  lady,  saying: 

"Adelaide,  may  I  introduce  Herr  Von  Francius — Lady 
Le  Marchant." 

A  stately  bow  from  the  lady — a  deep  reverence,  with  a 
momentary  glance  of  an  admiration  warmer  than  I  had 
ever  seen  in  his  eyes,  on  the  part  of  Von  Francius — a 
glance  which  was  instantly  suppressed  to  one  of  conven- 
tional inexpressiveness.  I  was  pleased  and  interested  with 
this  little  peep  at  a  rank  which  I  had  never  seen,  and 
could  have  stood  watching  them  for  a  long  time:  the 
splendid  beauty  and  the  great  pride  of  bearing  of  the  En- 
glish lady  were  a  revelation  to  me;  and  opened  quite  a 
large,  unknown  world  before  my  mental  eyes.  Romances 
and  poems,  and  men  dying  of  love,  or  killing  each  other 
for  it,  no  longer  seemed  ridiculous;  for  a  smile  or  a  warm- 
er glance  from  that  icily  beautiful  face  must  be  something 
not  to  forget. 

It  was  Eugen  who  pushed  forward,  with  a  frown  on  his 
brow,  and  less  than  his  usual  courtesy.  I  saw  his  eyes 
and  Miss  Wedderburn's  meet;  I  saw  the  sudden  flush  that 
ran  over  her  fair  face;  the  stern  composure  of  his.  He 
would  own  nothing;  but  I  was  strangely  mistaken  if  he 
could  say  that  it  was  merely  because  he  had  nothing  to 
own. 

The  concert  was  a  success,  so  far  as  Miss  Wedderburn 
went.  If  Von  Francius  had  allowed  repetitions,  one  song 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


247 


at  least  would  have  been  encored.  As  it  was,  she  was  a 
success.  And  Von  Francius  spent  his  time  in  the  pauses 
with  her  and  her  sister:  in  a  grave,  sedate  way  he  and  the 
English  lady  seemed  to  "  get  on." 

The  concert  was  over.  The  next  thing  that  was  of 
any  importance  to  us  occurred  shortly  afterwards.  Von 
Francius  had  long  been  somewhat  unpopular  with  his 
men,  and  at  silent  -  enmity  with  Eugen,  who  was,  on  the 
contrary,  a  universal  favorite.  There  came  a  crisis,  and 
the  men  sent  a  deputation  to  Eugen  to  say  that  if  he 
would  accept  the  post  of  leader  they  would  strike,  and  re- 
fuse to  accept  any  other  than  he. 

This  was  an  opportunity  for  distinguishing  himself. 
He  declined  the  honor;  his  words  were  few:  he  said 
something  about  how  kind  we  had  all  been  to  him,  "from 
the  time  when  I  arrived;  when  Friedhelm  Helfen,  here, 
took  me  in,  gave  me  every  help  and  assistance  in  his 
power,  and  showed  how  appropriate  his  name  was;*  and 
so  began  a  friendship  which,  please  heaven,  shall  last  till 
death  divides  us,  and  perhaps  go  on  afterwards."  He 
ended  by  saying  some  words  which  made  a  deep  impres- 
sion upon  me.  After  saying  that  he  might  possibly  leave 
Elberthal,  he  added,  "Lastly,  I  cannot  be  your  leader  be- 
cause I  never  intend  to  be  any  one's  leader — more  than  I 
am  now,"  he  added  with  a  faint  smile.  "A  kind  of  dep- 
uty, you  know.  I  am  not  fit  to  be  a  leader.  I  have  no 
gift  in  that  line — " 

"Dock  !  "  from  half  a  dozen  around. 

"None  whatever.  I  intend  to  remain  in  my  present 
condition — no  lower  if  I  can  help  it,  but  certainly  no 
higher.  I  have  good  reasons  for  knowing  it  to  be  my 
duty  to  do  so." 

And  then  he  urged  them  so  strongly  to  stand  by.Herr 
von  Francius  that  we  were  quite  astonished.  He  told 
them  that  Von  Francius  would  sometime  rank  with  Schu- 
mann, Raff,  or  Rubinstein,  and  that  the  men  who  rejected 
him  now  would  then  be  pointed  out  as  ignorant  and  prej- 
udiced. 

*  ffel/ea—to  help. 


248  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

And  amid  the  silence  that  ensued,  he  began  to  direct  us 
— we  had  a  Probe  to  Liszt's  Prometheus,  I  remember. 

He  had  won  the  day  for  Von  Francius,  and  Von  Fran- 
cius,  getting  to  hear  of  it,  came  one  day  to  see  him  and 
frankly  apologized  for  his  prejudice  in  the  past,  and  asked 
Eugen  for  his  friendship  in  the  future.  Eugen's  answer 
puzzled  me. 

"I  am  glad  you  know  that  I  honor  your  genius,  and 
wish  you  well,"  said  he,  "  and  your  offer  of  friendship  hon- 
ors me.  Suppose  I  say  I  accept  it — until  you  see  cause 
to  withdraw  it." 

"  You  are  putting  rather  a  remote  contingency  to  the 
front,"  said  Von  Francius. 

"Perhaps — perhaps  not,"  said  Eugen,  with  a  singular 
smile.  "  At  least  I  am  glad  to  have  had  this  token  of  your 
sense  of  generosity.  We  are  on  different  paths,  and  my 
friends  are  not  on  the  same  level  as  yours — " 

"  Excuse  me:  every  true  artist  must  be  a  friend  of  every 
other  true  artist.  We  recognize  no  division  of  rank  or 
possession." 

Eugen  bowed,  still  smiling  ambiguously,  nor  could  Von 
Francius  prevail  upon  him  to  say  anything  nearer  or  more 
certain.  They  parted,  and  long  afterwards  I  learned  the 
truth,  and  knew  the  bitterness  which  must  have  been  in 
Eugen's  heart:  the  shame,  the  gloom;  the  downcast  sor- 
row, as  he  refused  indirectly  but  decidedly  the  thing  he 
would  have  liked  so  well — to  shake  the  hand  of  a  man 
high  in  position  and  honorable  in  name — look  him  in  the 
face  and  say,  "I  accept  your  friendship — nor  need  you 
be  ashamed  of  wearing  mine  openly." 

He  refused  the  advance:  he  refused  that  and  every 
other  opening  for  advancement.  The  man  seemed  to 
have  a  horror  of  advancement,  or  of  coming  in  any  way 
forward.  He  rejected  even  certain  offers  which  were 
made  that  he  should  perform  some  solos  at  different  con- 
certs in  Elberthal  and  the  neighborhood.  I  once  urged 
him  to  become  rich  and  have  Sigmund  back  again.  He 
said:  "If  I  had  all  the  wealth  in  Germany,  it  would  di- 
vide us  farther  still." 

I  have  said  nothing  about  the  blank  which  Sigmund's 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


249 


absence  made  in  our  lives,  simply  because  it  was  too  great 
a  blank  to  describe.  Day  after  day  we  felt  it,  and  it  grew 
keener,  and  the  wound  smarted  more  sharply.  One  can- 
not work  all  day  long,  and  in  our  leisure  hours  we  learned 
to  know  only  too  well  that  he  was  gone — and  gone  indeed. 
That  which  remained  to  us  was  the  "  Resignation,"  the 
"miserable  assistant"  which  poor  Beethoven  indicated 
with  such  a  bitter  smile.  We  took  it  to  us  as  inmate 
and  Hausfreund,  and  made  what  we  could  of  it. 


BOOK  V. 

V^E  VICTIS! 


CHAPTER  I. 
"  So  runs  the  world  away." 

T7ONIGSALLEE,  No.  3,  could  scarcely  be  called  a 
j\_  happy  establishment.  I  saw  much  of  its  inner  life, 
and  what  I  saw  made  me  feel  mortally  sad — envy,  hatred, 
and  malice;  no  hour  of  satisfaction;  my  sister's  bitter 
laughs  and  sneers  and  jibes  at  men  and  things;  Sir  Peter's 
calm  consciousness  of  his  power,  and  his  no  less  calm, 
crushing,  unvarying  manner  of  wielding  it — of  silently 
and  horribly  making  it  felt.  Adelaide's  very  nature  ap- 
peared to  have  changed.  From  a  lofty  indifference  to 
most  things,  to  sorrow  and  joy,  to  the  hopes,  fears,  and 
feelings  of  others,  she  had  become  eager,  earnest,  passion- 
ate, resenting  ill-usage,  strenuously  desiring  her  own  way, 
deeply  angry  when  she  could  not  get  it.  To  say  that  Sir 
Peter's  influence  upon  her  was  merely  productive  of  a  neg- 
ative dislike  would  be  ridiculous.  It  was  productive  of 
an  intense,  active  hatred,  a  hatred  which  would  gladly,  if 
it  could,  have  vented  itself  in  deeds.  That  being  impos- 
sible, it  showed  itself  in  a  haughty,  unbroken  indifference 
of  demeanor  which  it  seemed  to  be  Sir  Peter's  present  aim 
in  some  way  to  break  down,  for  not  only  did  she  hate  him 
— he  hated  her. 

She  used  to  the  utmost  what  liberty  she  had.     She  was 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  251 

not  a  woman  to  talk  of  regret  for  what  she  had  done,  or 
to  own  that  she  had  miscalculated  her  game.  Her  life 
was  a  great  failure,  and  that  failure  had  been  brought 
home  to  her  mind  in  a  mercilessly  short  space  of  time ;  but 
of  what  use  to  bewail  it  ?  She  was  not  yet  conquered. 
The  bitterness  of  spirit  which  she  carried  about  with 
her  took  the  form  of  a  scoffing  pessimism.  A  hard  laugh 
at  the  things  which  made  other  people  shake  their  heads 
and  uplift  their  hands ;  a  ready  scoff  at  all  tenderness  ;  a 
sneer  at  anything  which  could  by  any  stretch  of  imagina- 
tion be  called  good;  a  determined  running  up  of  what 
was  hard,  sordid,  and  worldly,  and  a  persistent  and  utter 
skepticism  as  to  the  existence  of  the  reverse  of  those  things ; 
such  was  now  the  yea,  yea,  and  nay,  nay,  of  her  commu- 
nication. 

To  a  certain  extent  she  had  what  she  had  sold  herself 
for;  outside  pomp  and  show  in  plenty — carriages,  horses, 
servants,  jewels  and  clothes.  Sir  Peter  liked,  to  use  his 
own  expression,  "  to  see  my  lady  blaze  away  " — only  she 
must  blaze  away  in  his  fashion,  not  hers.  He  declared 
he  did  not  know  how  long  he  might  remain  in  Elberthal ; 
spoke  vaguely  of  "business  at  home,"  about  which  he 
was  waiting  to  hear,  and  said  that  until  he  heard  the  news 
he  wanted,  he  could  not  move  from  the  place  he  was  in. 
He  was  in  excellent  spirits  at  seeing  his  wife  chafing  under 
the  confinement  to  a  place  she  detested,  and  appeared  to 
find  life  sweet. 

Meanwhile  she,  using  her  liberty  as  I  said  to  the  utmost 
extent,  had  soon  plunged  into  the  midst  of  the  fastest  set 
in  Elberthal. 

There  was  a  fast  set  there  as  there  was  a  musical  set, 
an  artistic  set,  a  religious  set,  a  free-thinking  set;  for  though 
it  was  not  so  large  or  so  rich  as  many  dull,  wealthy  towns 
in  England,  it  presented  from  its  mixed  inhabitants  various 
phases  of  society. 

This  set  into  which  Adelaide  had  thrown  herself  was 
the  fast  one ;  a  coterie  of  officers,  artists,  the  richer  mer- 
chants and  bankers,  medical  men,  literati,  and  the  young 
(and  sometimes  old)  wives,  sisters  and  daughters  of  the 
same ;  many  of  them  priding  themselves  upon  not  being 


252  THE  FIRST  VIOLLV. 

natives  of  Elberthal,  but  coming  from  larger  and  gayer 
towns — Berlin,  Dresden,  Hamburg,  Frankfurt,  and  others. 

They  led  a  gay  enough  life  amongst  themselves-— a  life 
of  theatre,  concert,  and  opera-going,  of  dances,  private  at 
home,  public  at  the  Malkasten  or  Artists'  Club,  flirtations, 
marriages,  engagements,  disappointments,  the  usual  dreary 
and  monotonous  round.  They  considered  themselves  the 
only  society  worthy  the  name  in  Elberthal,  and  whoever 
was  not  of  their  set  was  Niemand. 

I  was  partly  dragged,  partly  I  went  to  a  certain  extent 
of  my  own  will,  into  this  vortex.  I  felt  myself  to  have 
earned  a  larger  experience  now  of  life  and  life's  realities. 
I  questioned  when  I  should  once  have  discreetly  inclined 
the  head  and  held  my  peace.  I  had  a  mind  to  examine 
this  clique  and  the  characters  of  some  of  its  units,  and  see 
in  what  it  was  superior  to  some  other  acquaintances  (in  a 
humbler  sphere)  with  whom  my  lot  had  been  cast.  As 
time  went  on  I  found  the  points  of  superiority  to  decrease 
— those  of  inferiority  rapidly  to  increase. 

I  troubled  myself  little  about  them  and  their  opinions. 
My  joys  and  griefs,  hopes  and  fears,  lay  so  entirely  out- 
side their  circle  that  I  scarce  noticed  whether  they  noticed 
me  or  not.  I  felt  and  behaved  coldly  towards  them !  to 
the  women  because  their  voices  never  had  the  ring  of 
genuine  liking  in  speaking  to  me  ;  to  the  men  because  I 
found  them  as  a  rule  shallow,  ignorant,  and  pretentious ; 
repellent  to  me,  as  I  dare  say  I,  with  my  inability  to  un- 
derstand them,  was  to  them.  I  saw  most  men  and  things 
through  a  distorting  glass ;  that  of  contrast,  conscious  or 
unconscious,  with  Courvoisier. 

My  musician,  I  reasoned,  wrongly  or  rightly,  had  three 
times  their  wit,  three  times  their  good  looks,  manners  and 
information,  and  many  times  three  times  their  common 
sense,  as  well  as  a  juster  appreciation  of  his  own  merits : 
besides  which,  my  musician  was  not  a  person  whose  ac- 
quaintance and  esteem  were  to  be  had  for  the  asking, 
— or  even  for  a  great  deal  more  than  the  asking,  while 
it  seemed  that  these  young  gentleman  gave  their  soci- 
ety to  any  one  who  could  live  in  a  certain  style  and 
talk  a  certain  argot,  and  their  esteem  to  every  one  who 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


253 


could  give  them  often  enough  the  savory  meat  that  their 
souls  loved,  and  the  wine  of  a  certain  quality  which  made 
glad  their  hearts,  and  rendered  them  of  a  cheerful  counte- 
nance. 

But  my  chief  reason  for  mixing  with  people  who  were 
certainly  as  a  rule  utterly  distasteful  and  repugnant  to  me, 
was  because  I  could  not  bear  to  leave  Adelaide  alone.  I 
pitied  her  in  her  lonely  and  alienated  misery;  and  I 
knew  that  it  was  some  small  solace  to  her  to  have  me 
with  her. 

The  tale  of  one  day  will  give  an  approximate  idea  of 
most  of  the  days  I  spent  with  her.  I  was  at  the  time 
staying  with  her.  Our  hours  were  late.  Breakfast  was 
not  over  till  ten,  that  is  by  Adelaide  and  myself.  Sir 
Peter  was  an  exceedingly  active  person,  both  in  mind  and 
body,  who  saw  after  the  management  of  his  affairs  in  En- 
gland in  the  minutest  manner  that  absence  would  allow. 
Towards  half-past  eleven  he  strolled  into  the  room  in 
which  we  were  sitting,  and  asked  what  we  were  doing. 

"  Looking  over  costumes,"  said  I,  as  Adelaide  made  no 
answer,  and  I  raised  my  eyes  from  some  colored  illustra- 
tions. 

"  Costumes — what  kind  of  costumes  ?  " 

"  Costumes  for  the  Maskenball"  I  answered,  taking 
refuge  in  brevity  of  reply. 

"  Oh !  "  He  paused.  Then,  turning  suddenly  to  Ade- 
laide : 

"  And  what  is  this  entertainment,  my  lady  ?  " 

"The  Carnival  Ball,"  said  she,  almost  inaudibly,  between 
her  closed  lips,  as  she  shut  the  book  of  illustrations,  push- 
ed it  away  from  her,  and  leaned  back  in  her  chair. 

"  And  you  think  you  would  like  to  go  to  the  Carnival 
Ball,  hey  ?  " 

"  No,  I  do  not,"  said  she,  as  she  stroked  her  lap-dog 
with  a  long,  white  hand  on  which  glittered  many  rings, 
and  steadily  avoided  looking  at  him.  She  did  wish  to 
go  to  the  ball,  but  she  knew  that  it  was  as  likely  as  not 
that  if  she  displayed  any  such  desire  he  would  prevent  it. 
Despite  her  curt  reply  she  foresaw  impending  the  occur- 
rence which  she  most  of  anything  disliked — a  conversa- 


254  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

tion  with  Sir  Peter.  He  placed  himself  in  our  midst,  and 
requested  to  look  at  the  pictures.  In  silence  I  handed 
him  the  book.  I  never  could  force  myself  to  smile  when 
he  was  there,  nor  overcome  a  certain  restraint  of  de- 
meanor which  rather  pleased  and  nattered  him  than 
otherwise.  He  glanced  sharply  round  in  the  silence 
which  followed  his  joining  our  company,  and  turning  over 
the  illustrations,  said : 

"  I  thought  I  heard  some  noise  when  I  came  in.  Don't 
let  me  interrupt  the  conversation." 

But  the  conversation  was  more  than  interrupted;  it 
was  dead — the  life  frozen  out  of  it  by  his  very  appear- 
ance. 

"  When  is  the  Carnival,  and  when  does  this  piece  of 
tomfoolery  come  off?  "  he  inquired,  with  winning  grace 
of  diction. 

"  The  Carnival  begins  this  year  on  the  26th  of  Febru- 
ary. The  ball  is  on  the  27th,"  said  I,  confining  myself  to 
facts  and  figures. 

"  And  how  do  you  get  there  ?     By  paying  ?  " 

"  Well,  you  have  to  pay — yes.  But  you  must  get  your 
tickets  from  some  member  of  the  Malkasten  Club.  It  is 
the  artists'  ball,  and  they  arrange  it  all." 

"  H'm !  Ha !  And  as  what  do  you  think  of  going, 
Adelaide  ?  "  he  inquired,  turning  with  suddenness  towards 
her. 

"  I  tell  you  I  had  not  thought  of  going — nor  thought 
anything  about  it.  Herr  von  Francius  sent  us  the  pict- 
ures, and  we  were  looking  over  them.  That  is  all." 

Sir  Peter  turned  over  the  pages  and  looked  at  the  com- 
monplace costumes  therein  suggested — Joan  of  Arc,  Cle- 
opatra, Picardy  Peasant,  Maria  Stuart,  a  Snow  Queen, 
and  all  the  rest  of  them. 

"Well,  I  don't  see  anything  here  that  I  would  wear 
if  I  were  a  woman,"  he  said,  as  he  closed  the  book. 
"  February,  did  you  say  ?  " 

"Yes,"  said  I,  as  no  one  else  spoke. 

"Well,  it  is  the  middle  of  January  now.  You  had 
better  be  looking  out  for  something :  but  don't  let  it  be 

anything  in  those books.  Let  the  beggarly  daubers 

see  how  Englishwomen  do  these  things." 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


255 


"  Do  you  intend  me  to  understand  that  you  wish  us  to 
go  to  the  ball  ? "  inquired  Adelaide,  in  an  icy  kind  of 
voice. 

"Yes,  I  do,"  almost  shouted  Sir  Peter.  Adelaide  could, 
despite  the  whip  and  rein  with  which  he  held  her,  exas- 
perate and  irritate  him — by  no  means  more  thoroughly 
than  by  pretending  that  she  did  not  understand  his  gran- 
diloquent allusions,  and  the  vague  grandness  of  the  com- 
mands which  he  sometimes  gave.  "  I  mean  you  to  go, 
and  your  little  sister  here,  and  Arkwright  too.  I  don't 
know  about  myself.  Now,  I  am  going  to  ride.  Good- 
morning." 

As  Sir  Peter  went  out,  Von  Francius  came  in.  Sir 
Peter  greeted  him  with  a  grin  and  exaggerated  expres- 
sions of  affability  at  which  Von  Francius  looked  silently 
scornful.  Sir  Peter  added : 

"  These  two  ladies  are  puzzled  to  know  what  they  shall 
wear  at  the  Carnival  Ball.  Perhaps  you  can  give  them 
your  assistance." 

Then  he  went  away.  It  was  as  if  a  half-muzzled  wolf 
had  left  the  room. 

Von  Francius  had  come  to  give  me  my  lesson,  which 
was  now  generally  taken  at  my  sister's  house  and  in  her 
presence,  and  after  which  Von  Francius  usually  remained 
some  half  hour  or  so  in  conversation  with  one  or  both 
of  us.  He  had  become  an  intime  of  the  house.  I  was 
glad  of  this,  and  that  without  him  nothing  seemed  com- 
plete, no  party  rounded,  scarcely  an  evening  finished. 

When  he  was  not  with  us  in  the  evening,  we  were 
somewhere  where  he  was;  either  at  a  concert  or  a  Probe, 
or  at  the  theatre  or  opera,  or  one  of  the  fashionable 
lectures  which  were  then  in  season. 

It  could  hardly  be  said  that  Von  Francius  was  a  more 
frequent  visitor  than  some  other  men  at  the  house,  but 
from  the  first  his  attitude  with  regard  to  Adelaide  had 
been  different.  Some  of  those  other  men  were,  or  pro- 
fessed to  be,  desperately  in  love  with  the  beautiful  English- 
woman ;  there  was  always  a  half-gallantry  in  their  be- 
havior, a  homage  which  might  not  be  very  earnest,  but 
which  was  homage  all  the  same,  to  a  beautiful  woman. 


256 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


With  Von  Francius  it  had  never  been  thus,  but  there  had 
been  a  gravity  and  depth  about  their  intercourse  which 
pleased  me.  I  had  never  had  the  least  apprehension 
with  regard  to  those  other  people;  she  might  amuse 
herself  with  them;  it  would  only  be  amusement,  and 
some  contempt. 

But  Von  Francius  was  a  man  of  another  mettle.  It 
had  struck  me  almost  from  the  first  that  there  might  be 
some  danger,  and  I  was  unfeignedly  thankful  to  see  that 
as  time  went  on  and  his  visits  grew  more  and  more  fre- 
quent and  the  intimacy  deeper,  not  a  look,  not  a .  sign 
occurred  to  hint  that  it  ever  was  or  would  be  more  than 
acquaintance,  liking,  appreciation,  friendship,  in  successive 
stages.  Von  Francius  had  never  from  the  first  treated 
her  as  an  ordinary  person,  but  with  a  kind  of  tacit  under- 
standing that  something  not  to  be  spoken  of  lay  behind 
all  she  did  and  said,  with  the  consciousness  that  the 
skeleton  in  Adelaide's  cupboard  was  more  ghastly  to  look 
upon  than  most  people's  secret  spectres,  and  that  it  per- 
sisted, with  an  intrusiveness  and  want  of  breeding  pe- 
culiar to  guests  of  that  calibre,  in  thrusting  its  society 
upon  her  at  all  kinds  of  inconvenient  times. 

I  enjoyed  these  music  lessons,  I  must  confess.  Von 
Francius  had  begun  to  teach  me  music  now,  as  well  as 
singing.  By  this  time  I  had  resigned  myself  to  the  con- 
viction that  such  talent  as  I  might  have  lay  in  my  voice, 
not  my  fingers,  and  accepted  it  as  part  of  the  conditions 
which  ordain  that  in  every  human  life  shall  be  something 
manque,  something  incomplete. 

The  most  memorable  moments  with  me  have  been 
those  in  which  pain  and  pleasure,  yearning  and  satisfac- 
tion, knowledge  and  seeking,  have  been  so  exquisitely 
and  so  intangibly  blended,  in  listening  to  some  deep 
sonata,  some  stately  and  pathetic  old  Cicuconna  or  Ga- 
votte, some  Concerto  or  Symphony:  the  thing  nearest 
heaven  is  to  sit  apart  with  closed  eyes  while  the  orchestra 
or  the  individual  performer  interprets  for  one  the  mystic 
poetry,  or  the  dramatic  fire,  or  the  subtle  cobweb  refine- 
ments of  some  instrumental  poem. 

I  would  rather  have  composed  a  certain  little  Trdumerei 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN, 


257 


of  Schumann's  or  a  Barcarole  of  Rubinstein's,  or  a  Son- 
ata of  Schubert's  than  have  won  all  the  laurels  of  Grisi, 
all  the  glory  of  Malibran  and  Jenny  Lind. 

But  it  was  not  to  be.  I  told  myself  so,  and  yet  I  tried 
so  hard  in  my  halting,  bungling  way  to  worship  the  god- 
dess of  my  idolatry,  that  my  master  had  to  restrain  me. 

"  Stop ! "  said  he  this  morning,  when  I  had  been  weakly 
endeavoring  to  render  a  Ciacconna  fV'jm  a  Suite  of  Lach- 
ner's,  which  had  moved  me  to  thought?  too  deep  for  tears 
at  the  last  Symphonic  Concert.  "Stop,  Fraulein  May! 
Duty  first :  your  voice  before  your  fingers." 

"  Let  me  try  once  again ! "  I  implored, 

He  shut  up  the  music  and  took  it  from  the  desk. 

"  Entbehren  sollst  du  ;  sollst  entbehren  •!  "  said  he,  dryly. 

I  took  my  lesson  and  then  practiced  shakes  for  an 
hour,  while  he  talked  to  Adelaide ;  and  then,  she  being 
summoned  to  visitors,  he  went  away. 

Later  I  found  Adelaide  in  the  midst  of  a  lot  of  visitors 
— Herr  Hauptmann  This,  Herr  Lieutenant  That,  Herr 
Maler  The  Other,  Herr  Concertmeister  So-and-So — for 
Von  Francius  was  not  the  only  musician  who  followed  in 
her  train.  But  there  I  am  wrong.  He  did  not  follow  in 
her  train ;  he  might  stand  aside  and  watch  the  others 
who  did ;  but  following  was  not  in  his  line. 

There  were  ladies  there  too — gay  young  women,  who 
rallied  round  Lady  Le  Marchant  as  around  a  master 
spirit  in  the  art  of  Zeitvertreib. 

This  levee  lasted  till  the  bell  rang  for  lunch,  when  we 
went  into  the  dining-room,  and  found  Sir  Peter  and  his 
secretary,  young  Arkwright,  already  seated.  He — Ark- 
wright — was  a  good-natured,  tender-hearted  lad,  devoted 
to  Adelaide.  I  do  not  think  he  was  very  happy  or  very 
well  satisfied  with  his  place,  but  from  his  salary  he  half 
supported  a  mother  and  sister,  and  so  was  fain  to  "grin 
and  bear  it." 

Sir  Peter  was  always  exceedingly  affectionate  to  me. 
I  hated  to  be  in  the  same  room  with  him,  and  while  I 
detested  him,  was  also  conscious  of  an  unheroic  fear  of 
him.  For  Adelaide's  sake  I  was  as  attentive  to  him  as  I 
could  make  myself,  in  order  to  free  her  a  little  from  his 
17 


258 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


surveillance,  for  poor  Adelaide  Wedderburn,  with  her  few 
pounds  of  annual  pocket-money,  and  her  proud,  restless, 
ambitious  spirit,  had  been  a  free,  contented  woman  in 
comparison  with  Lady  Le  Marchant. 

On  the  day  in  question  he  was  particularly  amiable, 
called  me  "my  dear"  every  time  he  spoke  to  me,  and 
complimented  me  uppn  my  good  looks,  telling  me  I  was 
growing  monstrou.  -~;.ndsome — ay,  devilish  handsome,  by 
Gad !  far  outstripping  my  lady,  who  had  gone  off  dread- 
fully in  her  good  looks,  hadn't  she,  Arkwright  ? 

Poor  Arkwright,  tingling  with  a  scorching  blush,  and 
ready  to  sink  through  the  floor  with  confusion,  stammered 
out  that  he  had  never  thought  of  venturing  to  remark 
upon  my  Lady  Le  Marchant's  looks. 

"  What  a  lie,  Arkwright !  You  know  you  watch  her  as 
if  she  was  the  apple  of  your  eye,"  chuckled  Sir  Peter, 
smiling  round  upon  the  company  with  his  cold,  glitttering 
eyes.  "What  are  you  blushing  so  for,  my  pretty  May? 
Isn't  there  a  song  something  about  my  pretty  May,  my 
dearest  May,  eh  ?  " 

"  My  pretty  Jane,  I  suppose  you  mean,"  said  I,  nobly 
taking  his  attention  upon  myself,  while  Adelaide  sat  mo- 
tionless and  white  as  marble,  and  Arkwright  cooled  down 
somewhat  from  his  state  of  shame  and  anguish  at  being 
called  upon  to  decide  which  of  us  eclipsed  the  other  in 
good  looks. 

"  Pretty  Jane !  Who  ever  heard  of  a  pretty  Jane  ?  " 
said  Sir  Peter.  "  If  it  isn't  May,  it  ought  to  be.  At  any 
rate,  there  was  a  Charming  May." 

"The  month — not  a  person." 

"  Pretty  Jane,  indeed !  You  must  sing  me  that  after 
lunch,  and  then  we  can  see  whether  the  song  was  pretty 
or  not,  my  dear,  eh  ?  " 

"  Certainly,  Sir  Peter,  if  you  like." 

"  Yes,  I  do  like.  My  lady  here  seems  to  have  lost  her 
voice  lately.  I  can't  imagine  the  reason.  I  am  sure  she 
has  everything  to  make  her  sing  for  joy;  have  you  not, 
my  dear?" 

"Everything,  and  more  than  everything,"  replies  my 
lady,  laconically. 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


259 


"  And  she  has  a  strong  sense  of  duty,  too ;  loves  those 
whom  she  ought  to  love,  and  despises  those  whom  she 
ought  to  despise.  She  always  has  done,  from  her  infancy 
up  to  the  time  when  she  loved  me  and  despised  public 
opinion  for  my  sake." 

The  last  remark  was  uttered  in  tones  of  deeper  malig- 
nity, while  the  eyes  began  to  glare,  and  the  under  lip  to 
droop,  and  the  sharp  eye-teeth,  M  ich  lent  such  a  very 
emphatic  point  to  all  Sir  Peter's  smiles,  sneers,  and  facial 
movements  in  general,  gleamed. 

Adelaide's  lip  quivered  for  a  second;  her  color  mo- 
mentarily faded. 

In  this  kind  of  light  and  agreeable  badinage  the  meal 
passed  over,  and  we  were  followed  into  the  drawing-room 
by  Sir  Peter,  loudly  demanding  '"My  Pretty  Jane' — or 
May,  or  whatever  it  was." 

"  We  are  going  out,"  said  my  lady.  "You  can  have  it 
another  time.  May  cannot  sing  the  moment  she  has  fin- 
ished lunch." 

"  Hold  your  tongue,  my  dear,"  said  Sir  Peter ;  and  in- 
spired by  an  agreeable  and  playful  humor,  he  patted  his 
wife's  shoulder  and  pinched  her  ear. 

The  color  fled  from  her  very  lips  and  she  stood  pale 
and  rigid  with  a  look  in  her  eyes  which  I  interpreted  to 
mean  a  shuddering  recoil,  stopped  by  sheer  force  of  will. 

Sir  Peter  turned  with  an  engaging  laugh  to  me : 

"  Miss  May — bonnie  May — made  me  a  promise,  and 
she  must  keep  it ;  or  if  she  doesn't,  I  shall  take  the  usual 
forfeit.  We  know  what  that  is.  Upon  my  word,  I  al- 
most wish  she  would  break  her  promise." 

"  I  have  no  wish  to  break  my  promise,"  said  I,  hasten- 
ing to  the  piano,  and  then  and  there  singing  "  My  Pretty 
Jane,"  and  one  or  two  others,  after  which  he  released  us, 
chuckling  at  having  contrived  to  keep  my  lady  so  long 
waiting  for  her  drive. 

The  afternoon's  programme  was,  I  confess,  not  without 
attraction  to  me;  for  I  knew  that  I  was  pretty,  and  I 
had  not  one  of  the  strong  and  powerful  minds  which  re- 
mained undated  by  admiration,  and  undepressed  by  the 
absence  of  it. 


26o  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

We  drove  to  the  picture  exhibitions,  and  at  both  of 
them  had  a  little  cro\vd  attending  us.  That  crowd  con- 
sisted chiefly  of  admirers,  or  professed  admirers,  of  my 
sister,  with  Von  Francius  in  addition,  who  dropped  in  at 
the  first  exhibition. 

Von  Francius  did  not  attend  my  sister ;  it  was  by  my 
side  that  he  remained,  and  it  was  to  me  that  he  talked. 
He  looked  on  at  the  men  who  were  around  her,  but 
scarcely  addressed  her  himself. 

There  was  a  clique  of  young  artists  who  chose  to  con- 
sider the  wealth  of  Sir  Peter  Le  Marchant  as  fabulous, 
and  who  paid  court  to  his  wife  from  mixed  motives ;  the 
prevailing  one  being  a  hope  that  she  would  be  smitten  by 
some  picture  of  theirs  at  a  fancy  price,  and  order  it  to  be 
sent  home, — as  if  she  ever  saw  with  anything  beyond  the 
most  superficial  outward  eye  those  pictures,  and  as  if  it 
lay  in  her  power  to  order  any  one,  even  the  smallest  and 
meanest  of  them.  These  ingenuous  artists  had  yet  to 
learn  that  Sir  Peter's  picture  purchases  were  formed  from 
his  own  judgment,  through  the  medium  of  himself  or  his 
secretary,  armed  with  strict  injunctions  as  to  price,  and 
upon  the  most  purely  practical  and  business-like  principles 
— not  in  the  least  at  the  caprice  of  his  wife. 

We  went  to  the  larger  gallery  last.  As  we  entered  it  I 
turned  aside  with  Von  Francius  to  look  at  a  picture  in  a 
small  back  room,  and  when  we  turned  to  follow  the  oth- 
ers, they  had  all  gone  forward  into  the  large  room ;  but 
standing  at  the  door  by  which  we  had  entered,  and  look- 
ing calmly  after  us,  was  Courvoisier. 

A  shock  thrilled  me.  It  was  some  time  since  I  had 
seen  him ;  for  I  had  scarcely  been  at  my  lodgings  for  a 
fortnight,  and  we  had  had  no  Hanptproben  lately.  I  had 
heard  some  rumor  that  important  things — or,  as  Frau 
Liitzler  gracefully  expressed  it,  was  Wichtiges — had  taken 
place  between  Von  Francius  and  the  Kapelle,  and  that 
Courvoisier  had  taken  a  leading  part  in  the  affair.  To- 
day the  greeting  between  the  two  men  was  a  cordial  if 
a  brief  one. 

Eugen's  eyes  scarcely  fell  upon  me;  he  included  me 
in  his  bow — that  was  all.  All  my  little  day-dream  of 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  261 

growing  self-complacency  was  shattered,  scattered;  the 
old  feeling  of  soreness,  smallness,  wounded  pride,  and 
bruised  self-esteem  came  back  again.  I  felt  a  wild, 
angry  desire  to  compel  some  other  glance  from  those 
eyes  than  that  exasperating  one  of  quiet  indifference.  I 
felt  it  like  a  lash  every  time  I  encountered  it.  Its  very 
coolness  and  absence  of  emotion  stung  me  and  made  me 
quiver. 

We  and  Courvoisier  entered  the  large  room  at  the  same 
time.  While  Adelaide  was  languidly  making  its  circuit, 
Von  Francius  and  I  sat  upon  the  ottoman  in  the  middle 
of  the  room.  I  watched  Eugen,  even  if  he  took  no  no- 
tice of  me — watched  him  till  every  feeling  of  rest,  every 
hard-won  conviction  of  indifference  to  him  and  feeling  of 
regard  conquered  came  tumbling  down  in  ignominious 
ruins.  I  knew  he  had  had  a  fiery  trial.  His  child,  for 
whom  I  used  to  watch  his  adoration  with  a  dull  kind  of 
envy,  had  left  him.  There  was  some  mystery  about  it, 
and  much  pain.  Frau  Liitzler  had  begun  to  tell  me  a 
long  story  culled  from  one  told  her  by  Frau  Schmidt,  and 
I  had  stopped  her,  but  knew  that  "  Herr  Courvoisier  was 
not  like  the  same  man  any  more." 

That  trouble  was  visible  in  firmly-marked  lines,  even 
now;  he  looked  subdued,  older,  and  his  face  was  thin  and 
worn.  Yet  never  had  I  noticed  so  plainly  before  the 
bright  light  of  intellect  in  his  eye;  the  noble  stamp  of 
mind  upon  his  brow.  There  was  more  than  the  grace  of 
a  kindly  nature  in  the  pleasant  curve  of  the  lips — there 
was  thought,  power,  intellectual  strength.  I  compared 
him  with  the  young  men  who  were  at  this  moment  dang- 
ling round  my  sister.  Not  one  amongst  them  could  ap- 
proach him — not  merely  in  stature  and  breadth  and  the 
natural  grace  and  dignity  of  carriage,  but  in  far  better 
things — in  the  mind  that  dominates  sense;  the  will  that 
holds  back  passion  with  a  hand  as  strong  and  firm  as  that 
of  a  master  over  the  dog  whom  he  chooses  to  obey  him. 

This  man — I  write  from  knowledge — had  the  capacity 
to  appreciate  and  enjoy  life — to  taste  its  pleasures — never 
to  excess,  but  with  no  ascetic's  lips.  But  the  natural 
prompting — the  moral  "  eat,  drink  and  be  merry,"  was 


262  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

held  back  with  a  ruthless  hand;  with  chain  of  iron,  and 
biting  thong  to  chastise  pitilessly  each  restive  movement. 
He  dreed  out  his  weird  most  thoroughly,  and  drank  the 
cup  presented  to  him  to  the  last  dregs. 

When  the  weird  is  very  long  and  hard — when  the  fla- 
vor of  the  cup  is  exceeding  bitter,  this  process  leaves  its 
effects  in  the  form  of  sobered  mien,  gathering  wrinkles, 
and  a  permanent  shadow  on  the  brow,  and  in  the  eyes. 
So  it  was  with  him. 

He  went  round  the  room,  looking  at  a  picture  here  and 
there  with  the  eye  of  a  connoisseur — then  pausing  before 
the  one  which  Von  Francius  had  brought  me  to  look  at 
on  Christmas-day,  Courvoisier,  folding  his  arms,  stood  be- 
fore it  and  surveyed  it,  straightly,  and  without  moving  a 
muscle;  coolly,  criticisingly  and  very  fastidiously.  The 
blase-looking  individual  in  the  foreground  received,  I  saw, 
a  share  of  his  attention — the  artist,  too,  in  the  back- 
ground; the  model,  with  the  white  dress,  oriental  fan, 
bare  arms,  and  half-bored,  half-cynic  look.  He  looked  at 
them  all  long — attentively — then  turned  away ;  the  only 
token  of  approval  or  disapproval  which  he  vouchsafed 
being  a  slight  smile  and  a  slight  shrug,  both  so  very  slight 
as  to  be  almost  imperceptible.  Then  he  passed  on — 
glanced  at  some  other  pictures — at  my  sister,  on  whom 
his  eyes  dwelt  for  a  moment  as  if  he  thought  that  she 
at  least  made  a  very  beautiful  picture;  then  out  of  the 
room. 

"  Do  you  know  him  ?  "  said  Von  Francius,  quite  softly, 
to  me. 

I  started  violently.  I  had  utterly  forgotten  that  he 
was  at  my  side,  and  I  know  not  what  tales  my  face  had 
been  telling.  I  turned  to  find  the  dark  and  impenetrable 
eyes  of  Von  Francius  fixed  on  me. 

"  A  little,"  I  said. 

"Then  you  know  a  generous,  high-minded  man — a 
man  who  has  made  me  feel  ashamed  of  myself — and  a 
man  to  whom  I  made  an  apology  the  other  day  with 
pleasure." 

My  heart  warmed.  This  praise  of  Eugen  by  a  man 
whom  I  admired  so  devotedly  as  I  did  Max  von  Francius 
seemed  to  put  me  right  with  myself  and  the  world. 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  263 

Soon  afterwards  we  left  the  exhibition,  and  while  the 
others  went  away  it  appeared  somehow  by  the  merest  cas- 
ualty that  Von  Francius  was  asked  to  drive  back  with  us 
and  have  afternoon  tea,  englischerweise — which  he  did, 
after  a  moment's  hesitation. 

After  tea  he  left  for  an  orchestra  Probe  to  the  next  Sat- 
urday's concert;  but  with  an  Auf  Wiedersehen,  for  the 
Probe  will  not  last  long,  and  we  shall  meet  again  at  the 
opera  and  later  at  the  Malkasten  Ball. 

I  enjoyed  going  to  the  theatre.  I  knew  my  dress  was 
pretty.  I  knew  that  I  looked  nice,  and  that  people  would 
look  at  me,  and  that  I,  too,  should  have  my  share  of  ad- 
miration and  compliments  as  a  schone  Englanderin. 

We  were  twenty  minutes  late — naturally.  All  the  peo- 
ple in  the  place  stare  at  us  and  whisper  about  us,  partly 
because  we  have  a  conspicuous  place — the  proscenium 
loge  to  the  right  of  the  stage ;  partly  because  we  are  in 
full  toilet — an  almost  unprecedented  circumstance  in  that 
homely  theatre — partly,  I  suppose,  because  Adelaide  is 
supremely  beautiful. 

Mr.  Arkwright  was  already  with  us.  Von  Francius 
joined  us  after  the  first  act,  and  remained  until  the  end. 
Almost  the  only  words  he  exchanged  with  Adelaide  were : 

"  Have  you  seen  this  opera  before,  Lady  Le  Mar- 
chant?" 

"No;  never." 

It  was  Auber's  merry  little  opera,  Des  Tcufeh  Antheil. 
The  play  was  played.  Von  Francius  was  beside  me. 
Whenever  I  looked  down  I  saw  Eugen,  with  the  same 
calm,  placid  indifference  upon  his  face;  and  again  I  felt 
the  old  sensation  of  soreness,  shame  and  humiliation.  I 
feel  wrought  up  to  a  great  pitch  of  nervous  excitement 
when  we  leave  the  theatre  and  drive  to  the  Malkasten, 
where  there  is  more  music — dance  music;  and  where  the 
ball  is  at  its  height.  And  in  a  few  moments  I  find  my- 
self whirling  down  the  room  in  the  arms  of  Von  Francius, 
to  the  music  of  Mein  selwnster  Tag  in  Baden,  and  wishing 
very  earnestly  that  the  heart-sickness  I  feel  would  make 
me  ill  or  faint,  or  anything  that  would  send  me  home  to 
quietness  and — him.  But  it  does  not  have  the  desired  ef- 


264  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

feet.  I  am  in  a  fever:  I  am  all  too  vividly  conscious,  and 
people  tell  me  how  well  I  am  looking,  and  that  rosy  cheeks 
become  me  better  than  pale  ones. 

They  are  merry  parties,  these  dances  at  the  Malkasten, 
in  the  quaintly-decorated  saal  of  the  artists'  club-house. 
There  is  a  certain  license  in  the  dress.  Velvet  coats,  and 
coats,  too,  in  many  colors,  green  and  prune  and  claret, 
vieing  with  black,  are  not  tabooed.  There  are  various 
uniforms  of  hussars,  infantry,  and  uhlans,  and  some  of 
the  women,  too,  are  dressed  in  a  certain  fantastically  pict- 
uresque style  to  please  their  artist  brothers  or  fiances. 

The  dancing  gets  faster,  and  the  festivities  are  kept  up 
late.  Songs  are  sung  which  perhaps  would  not  be  heard 
in  a  quiet  drawing-room;  a  little  acting  is  done  with 
them.  Music  is  played,  and  Von  Francius,  in  a  vagrant 
mood,  sits  down  and  improvises  a  fitful,  stormy  kind  of 
fantasia,  which  in  itself  and  in  his  playing  puts  me  much 
in  mind  of  the  weird  performances  of  the  Abbate  Liszt. 

I  at  least  hear  another  note  than  of  yore,  another  touch. 
The  soul  that  it  wanted  seems  gradually  creeping  into  it. 
He  tells  a  strange  story  upon  the  quivering  keys — it  is  be- 
coming tragic,  sad,  pathetic.  He  says  hastily  to  me  and 
and  in  an  undertone,  "  Fraulein  May,  this  is  a  thought  of 
one  of  your  own  poets: 

'  How  sad,  and  mad,  and  bad  it  was, 
And  yet  how  it  was  sweet.'" 

I  am  almost  in  tears,  and  every  face  is  affording  illus- 
trations for  "The  Expressions  of  the  Emotions  in  Men  and 
Women,"  when  it  suddenly  breaks  off  with  a  loud  Ha! 
ha!  ha!  which  sounds  as  if  it  came  from  a  human  voice, 
and  jars  upon  me,  and  then  he  breaks  into  a  waltz,  push- 
ing the  astonished  musicians  aside,  and  telling  the  com- 
pany to  dance  while  he  pipes. 

A  mad  dance  to  a  mad  tune.  He  plays  and  plays  on, 
ever  faster,  and  ever  a  wilder  measure,  with  strange  eerie, 
clanging  chords  in  it  which  are  not  like  dance  notes,  until 
Adelaide  prepares  to  go,  and  then  he  suddenly  ceases, 
springs  up,  and  comes  with  us  to  our  carriage.  Adelaide 
looks  white  and  worn. 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  265 

Again  at  the  carriage  door,  "a  pair  of  words  "  passes  be- 
tween them. 

"  Milady  is  tired  ?  "  from  him,  in  a  courteous  tone,  as  his 
dark  eyes  dwell  upon  her  face. 

"Thanks,  Herr  Direktor,  I  am  generally  tired,"  from 
her,  with  a  slight  smile,  as  she  folds  her  shawl  across  her 
breast  with  one  hand,  and  extends  the  other  to  him. 

"Milady,  adieu." 

"  Adieu,  Herr  von  Francius." 

The  ball  is  over,  and  I  think  we  have  all  had  enough 
of  it. 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE    CARNIVAL   BALL. 

U  A  RENT  you  coming  to  the  ball,  Eugen?" 

A     "I?     No." 

"  I  would  if  I  were  you." 

"But  you  are  yourself,  you  see,  and  I  am  I.  What  was 
it  that  Heinrich  Mohr  in  'The  Children  of  the  World' 
was  always  saying?  Ich  bin  ich,  und  seize  mich  selbst. 
Ditto  me,  that's  all." 

"It  is  no  end  of  a  lark,"  I  pursued. 

"  My  larking  days  are  over." 

"And  you  can  talk  to  any  one  you  like." 

"I  am  going  to  talk  to  myself,  thanks.  I  have  long 
wanted  a  little  conversation  with  that  interesting  individ- 
ual, and  while  you  are  masquerading,  I  will  be  doing  the 
reverse.  By  the  time  you  come  home  I  shall  be  so  thor- 
oughly self-investigated  and  set  to  rights,  that  a  mere  look 
at  me  will  shake  all  the  frivolity  out  of  you." 

"  Miss  Wedderburn  will  be  there." 

"  I  hope  she  may  enjoy  it." 

"At  least  she  will  look  so  lovely  that  she  will  make  oth- 
ers enjoy  it." 

He  made  no  answer. 

"  You  won't  go — quite  certain  ?  " 

"  Quite  certain,  mcin  Licber.  Go  yourself,  and  may  you 
have  much  pleasure!" 

Finding  that  he  was  in  earnest,  I  went  out  to  hire  one 
domino  and  purchase  one  mask,  instead  of  furnishing  my- 
self, as  I  had  hoped,  with  two  of  each  of  those  requisites. 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  267 

It  was  Sunday,  the  first  day  of  the  Carnival,  and  that 
devoted  to  the  ball  of  the  season.  There  were  others 
given,  but  this  was  the  Malerball,  or  artists'  ball.  It  was 
considered  rather  select,  and  had  I  not  been  lucky  enough 
to  have  one  or  two  pupils,  members  of  the  club,  who  had 
come  forward  with  offerings  of  tickets,  I  might  have  tried 
in  vain  to  gain  admittance. 

Everybody  in  Elberthal  who  was  anybody  would  be  at, 
this  ball.  I  had  already  been  at  one  like  it,  as  well  as  at 
several  of  the  less  select  and  rougher  entertainments,  and 
I  found  a  pleasure  which  was  somewhat  strange  even  to 
myself  in  standing  to  one  side  and  watching  the  motley 
throng  and  the  formal  procession  which  was  every  year 
organized  by  the  artists  who  had  the  management  of  the 
proceedings. 

The  ball  began  at  the  timely  hour  of  seven;  about  nine 
I  enveloped  myself  in  my  domino,  and  took  my  way 
across  the  road  to  the  scene  of  the  festivities,  which  took 
up  the  whole  three  saals  of  the  Tonhalle. 

The  night  was  bitter  cold,  but  cold  with  that  rawness 
which  speaks  of  a  coming  thaw.  The  lamps  were  lighted, 
and  despite  the  cold  there  was  a  dense  crowd  of  watchers 
round  the  front  of  the  building  and  in  the  gardens,  with 
cold,  inquisitive  noses  flattened  against  the  long  glass 
doors  through  which  I  have  seen  the  people  stream  in  the 
pleasant  May  evenings  after  the  concert  or  Musikfest  into 
the  illuminated  gardens. 

The  last  time  I  had  been  in  the  big  saal  had  been  to  at- 
tend a  dry  Probe  to  a  dry  concert — the  "  Erste  Walpurgis- 
nacht"  of  Mendelssohn.  The  scene  was  changed  now; 
the  whole  room  was  a  mob — "motley  the  only  wear."  It 
was  full  to  excess,  so  that  there  was  scarcely  room  to  move 
about,  much  less  for  dancing.  For  that  purpose  the  mid- 
dle saal  of  the  three  had  been  set  aside,  or  rather  a  part 
of  it  railed  off. 

I  felt  a  pleasant  sense  of  ease  and  well-being — a  se- 
curity that  I  should  not  be  recognized,  as  I  had  drawn 
the  pointed  hood  of  my  domino  over  my  head,  and  en- 
veloped myself  closely  in  its  ample  folds,  and  thus  I  could 
survey  the  brilliant  Maskenball  as  I  surveyed  life  from  a 


268  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN, 

quiet,  unnoticed  obscurity,  and  without  taking  part  in  its 
active  affairs. 

There  was  music  going  on  as  I  entered.  It  could 
scarcely  be  heard  above  the  Babel  of  tongues  which  was 
sounding.  People  were  moving  as  well  as  they  could. 
I  made  my  way  slowly  and  unobtrusively  towards  the 
upper  end  of  the  saa/,  intending  to  secure  a  place  on  the 
great  orchestra,  and  thence  survey  the  procession. 

I  recognized  dozens  of  people  whom  I  knew  personally, 
or  by  sight,  or  name,  transformed  from  sober  Rhenish 
Burger,  or  youths  of  the  period,  into  persons  and  creat- 
ures whose  appropriateness  or  inappropriateness  to  their 
every-day  character  it  gave  me  much  joy  to  witness.  The 
most  foolish  young  man  I  knew  was  attired  as  Cardinal 
Richelieu ;  the  wisest,  in  certain  respects,  had  a  buffoon's 
costume,  and  plagued  the  statesman  and  churchman 
grievously. 

By  degrees  I  made  my  way  through  the  mocking, 
taunting,  flouting,  many-colored  crowd,  to  the  orchestra, 
and  gradually  up  its  steps  until  I  stood  upon  a  fine 
vantage-ground.  Near  me  were  others :  I  looked  round. 
One  party  seemed  to  keep  very  much  together — a  party 
which  for  richness  and  correctness  of  costume  outshone 
all  others  in  the  room.  Two  ladies,  one  dark  and  one 
fair,  were  dressed  as  Elsa  and  Ortrud.  A  man,  whose 
slight,  tall,  commanding  figure  I  soon  recognized,  was 
attired  in  the  blue  mantle,  silver  helm  and  harness  of 
Lohengrin  the  son  of  Percivale;  and  a  second  man,  too 
boyish-looking  for  the  character,  was  masked  as  Frederic 
of  Telramund.  Henry  the  Fowler  was  wanting,  but  the 
group  were  easily  to  be  recognized  as  personating  the  four 
principal  characters  from  Wagner's  great  opera. 

They  had  apparently  not  been  there  long,  for  they  had 
not  yet  unmasked.  I  had,  however,  no  difficulty  in  rec- 
ognizing any  of  them.  The  tall,  fair  girl  in  the  dress  of 
Elsa  was  Miss  Wedderburn;  the  Ortrud  was  Lady  Le 
Marchant,  and  right  well  she  looked  the  character.  Loh- 
engrin was  Von  Francius,  and  Friedrich  von  Telramund 
was  Mr.  Arkwright,  Sir  Peter's  secretary.  Here  was  a 
party  in  whom  I  could  take  some  interest,  and  I  immedi- 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


269 


ately  and  in  the  most  unprincipled  manner  devoted  my- 
self to  watching  them — myself  unnoticed. 

"Who  in  all  that  motley  crowd  would  I  wish  to  be?" 
I  thought,  as  my  eyes  wandered  over  them. 

The  procession  was  just  forming;  the  voluptuous  music 
of  Die  Tousand  und  eine  Nacht  waltzes  was  floating  from 
the  gallery  and  through  the  room.  They  went  sweeping 
past — or  running,  or  jumping;  a  ballet-girl  whose  mus- 
tache had  been  too  precious  to  be  parted  with,  and  a  lady 
of  the  vielle  cour  beside  her,  nuns  and  corpses ;  Christy 
Minstrels  (English,  these  last,  whose  motives  were  con- 
stantly misunderstood),  fools  and  astrologers,  Gretchens, 
Clarchens,  devils,  Egmonts,  Joans  of  Arc  enough  to  have 
rescued  France  a  dozen  times;  and  peasants  of  every 
race;  Turks  and  Finns;  American  Indians  and  Alfred 
the  Great — it  was  tedious  and  dazzling. 

Then  the  procession  was  got  into  order:  a  long  string 
of  German  legends,  all  the  misty  chronicle  of  Gudrun, 
the  Nibcliingenlied  and  the  Rheingold — Siegfried  and 
Kriemhild — those  two  everlasting  figures  of  beauty  and 
heroism,  love  and  tragedy,  which  stand  forth  in  hues  of 
pure  brightness  that  no  time  can  dim;  Brunhild  and  Von 
Tronje-Hagen — this  was  before  the  days  of  Bayreuth  and 
the  Tetralogy — Tannhauser  and  Lohengrin,  the  Loreley, 
Walther  von  der  Vogelweide,  the  two  Elizabeths  of  the 
Wartburg,  dozens  of  obscure  legends  and  figures  from 
VolksHeder  and  Folklore  which  I  did  not  recognize; 
Dornroschen,  Rubezahl;  and  the  music  to  which  they 
marched,  was  the  melancholy  yet  noble  measure,  "The 
Last  Ten  of  the  Fourth  Regiment." 

I  surveyed  the  masks  and  masquerading  for  some  time, 
keeping  my  eye  all  the  while  upon  the  party  near  me. 
They  presently  separated.  Lady  Le  Marchant  took  the 
arm  which  Von  Francius  offered  her,  and  they  went  down 
the  steps.  Miss  Wedderburn  and  the  young  secretary 
were  left  alone.  I  was  standing  near  them,  and  two 
other  masks,  both  in  domino,  hovered  about.  One  wore 
a  white  domino  with  a  scarlet  rosette  on  the  breast.  The 
other  was  a  black  domino,  closely  disguised,  who  looked 
long  after  Von  Francius  and  Lady  Le  Marchant,  and 


27o  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN1. 

presently  descended  the  orchestra  steps  and  followed  in 
their  wake. 

"Do  not  remain  with  me,  Mr.  Arkwright,"  I  heard 
Miss  Wedderburn  say.  "You  want  to  dance.  Go  and 
enjoy  yourself." 

"  I  could  not  think  of  leaving  you  alone,  Miss  Wedder- 
burn." 

"Oh  yes,  you  could,  and  can.  I  am  not  going  to 
move  from  here.  I  want  to  look  on — not  to  dance. 
You  will  find  me  here  when  you  return." 

Again  she  urged  him  not  to  remain  with  her,  and  finally 
he  departed  in  search  of  amusement  amongst  the  crowd 
below. 

Miss  Wedderburn  was  now  alone.  She  turned;  her 
eyes,  through  her  mask,  met  mine  through  my  mask,  and 
a  certain  thrill  shot  through  me.  This  was  such  an  op- 
portunity as  I  had  never  hoped  for,  and  I  told  myself  that 
I  should  be  a  great  fool  if  I  let  it  slip.  But  how  to 
begin  ?  I  looked  at  her.  She  was  very  beautiful,  this 
young  English  girl,  with  the  wonderful  blending  of  fire 
and  softness  which  had  made  me  from  the  first  think  her 
one  of  the  most  attractive  women  I  had  ever  seen. 

As  I  stood,  awkward  and  undecided,  she  beckoned  me 
to  her.  In  an  instant  I  was  at  her  side,  bowing  but 
maintaining  silence. 

"You  are  Herr  Helfen,  nicht  wahr?"  said  she,  inquir- 
ingly. 

"  Yes,"  said  I,  and  removed  my  mask.  "  How  did  you 
know  it  ?  " 

"Something  in  your  figure  and  attitude.  Are  you  not 
dancing  ?  " 

"  I— oh  no ! " 

"  Nor  I — I  am  not  in  the  humor  for  it.     I  never  felt 
less  like  dancing,  nor  less  like  a  masquerade."     Then — 
hesitatingly,  "Are  you  alone  to-night?" 
'Yes.     Eugen  would  not  come." 

'  He  will  not  be  here  at  all  ?  " 

1  Not  at  all." 

'I  am  surprised." 

'I  tried  to  persuade  him  to  come,"  said  I,  apologetic- 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


271 


ally.  "  But  he  would  not.  He  said  he  was  going  to 
have  a  little  conversation  at  home  with  himself." 

"So!"  She  turned  to  me  with  a  mounting  color,  which 
I  saw  flush  to  her  brow  above  her  mask,  and  with  parted 
lips. 

"  He  has  never  cared  for  anything  since  Sigmund  left 
us,"  I  continued. 

"  Sigmund — was  that  the  dear  little  boy  ?  " 

"You  say  very  truly." 

"Tell  me  about  him.  Was  not  his  father  very  fond 
of  him  ?  " 

"Fond!  I  never  saw  a  man  idolize  his  child  so  much. 
It  was  only  need — the  hardest  need  that  made  them  part." 

"  How — need  ?  You  do  not  mean  poverty  ?  "  said  she, 
somewhat  awestruck. 

"  Oh  no  !  Moral  necessity.  I  do  not  know  the  reason. 
I  have  never  asked.  But  I  know  it  was  like  a  death- 
blow." 

"Ah  !  "  said  she,  and  with  a  sudden  movement  removed 
her  mask,  as  if  she  felt  it  stifling  her,  and  looked  me  in 
the  face  with  her  beautiful  clear  eyes. 

"Who  could  oblige  him  to  part  with  his  own  child?" 
she  asked. 

"  That  I  do  not  know,  mein  JFraulein.  What  I  do 
know  is  that  some  shadow  darkens  my  friend's  life  and 
imbitters  it — that  he  not  only  cannot  do  what  he  wishes, 
but  is  forced  to  do  what  he  hates — and  that  parting  was 
one  of  the  things." 

She  looked  at  me  with  eagerness  for  some  moments ; 
then  said  quickly : 

"I  cannot  help  being  interested  in  all  this,  but  I  fancy 
I  ought  not  to  listen  to  it,  for — for — I  don't  think  he 
would  like  it.  He — he — I  believe  he  dislikes  me,  and 
perhaps  you  had  better  say  no  more." 

"  Dislikes  you ! "  I  echoed.     "  Oh  no ! " 

"Oh  yes!  he  does,"  she  repeated  with  a  faint  smile, 
which  struggled  for  a  moment  with  a  look  of  pain,  and 
then  was  extinguished.  "  I  certainly  was  once  very  rude 
to  him,  but  I  should  not  have  thought  he  was  an  ungen- 
erous man — should  you  ?  " 


272  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

"  He  is  not  ungenerous;  the  very  reverse:  he  is  too  gen- 
erous." 

"It  does  not  matter,  I  suppose,"  said  she,  repressing 
some  emotion.  "  It  can  make  no  difference,  but  it  pains 
me  to  be  so  misunderstood  and  so  behaved  to  by  one  who 
was  at  first  so  kind  to  me — for  he  was  very  kind." 

" Mein  Fraukin"  said  I,  eager,  though  puzzled,  "I 
cannot  explain  it;  it  is  as  great  a  mystery  to  me  as  to  you. 
I  know  nothing  of  his  past — nothing  of  what  he  has  been 
or  done;  nothing  of  who  he  is — only  of  one  thing  I  am 
sure — that  he  is  not  what  he  seems  to  be.  He  may  be 
called  Eugen  Courvoisier,  or  he  may  call  himself  Eugen 
Courvoisier:  he  was  once  known  by  some  name  in  a  very 
different  world  to  that  he  lives  in  now.  I  know  nothing 
about  that,  but  I  know  this — that  /  believe  in  him.  I  have 
lived  more  than  three  years  with  him :  he  is  true  and  hon- 
orable: fantastically,  chivalrously  honorable"  (her  eyes 
were  downcast  and  her  cheeks  burning).  "  He  never  did 
anything  false  or  dishonest — " 

A  slight,  low,  sneering  laugh  at  my  right  hand  caused 
me  to  look  up.  That  figure  in  a  white  domino  with  a 
black  mask,  and  a  crimson  rosette  on  the  breast,  stood 
leaning  up  against  the  foot  of  the  organ,  but  other  figures 
were  near:  the  laugh  might  have  come  from  one  of  them: 
it  might  have  nothing  to  do  with  us  or  our  remarks.  I 
went  on  in  a  vehement  and  eager  tone: 

"  He  is  what  we  Germans  call  a  ganzer  Kerl — thorough 
in  all — out  and  out  good.  Nothing  will  ever  make  me 
believe  otherwise.  Perhaps  the  mystery  will  never  be 
cleared  up.  It  doesn't  matter  to  me.  It  will  make  no 
difference  in  my  opinion  of  the  only  man  I  love." 

A  pause.  Miss  Wedderburn  was  looking  at  me:  her 
eyes  were  full  of  tears;  her  face  strangely  moved.  Yes — 
she  loved  him.  It  stood  confessed  in  the  very  strength  of 
the  effort  she  made  to  be  calm  and  composed.  As  she 
opened  her  lips  to  speak,  that  domino  that  I  mentioned 
glided  from  her  place  and  stooping  down  between  us, 
whispered  or  murmured: 

"You  are  a  fool  for  your  pains.  Believe  no  one — least 
of  all  those  who  look  most  worthy  of  belief.  He  is  not 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  273 

honest!  he  is  not  honorable.  It  is  from  shame  and  dis- 
grace that  he  hides  himself.  Ask  him  if  he  remembers 
the  2oth  of  April  five  years  ago;  you  will  hear  what  he 
has  to  say  about  it,  and  how  brave  and  honorable  he 
looks." 

Swift  as  fire  the  words  were  said,  and  rapidly  as  the 
same  she  had  raised  herself  and  disappeared.  We  were 
left  gazing  at  one  another.  Miss  Wedderburn's  face  was 
blanched — she  stared  at  me  with  large  dilated  eyes,  and 
at  last  in  a  low  voice  of  anguish  and  apprehension  said : 

"  Oh,  what  does  it  mean  ?  " 

Her  voice  recalled  me  to  myself. 

"//  may  mean  what  it  likes,"  said  I,  calmly.  "As  I 
said,  it  makes  no  difference  to  me.  I  do  not  and  will  not 
believe  that  he  ever  did  anything  dishonorable." 

"Do  you  not?"  said  she,  tremulously.  MBut — but—- 
Anna Sartorius  does  know  something  of  him." 

"  Who  is  Anna  Sartorius  ?  " 

"Why,  that  domino  who  spoke  to  us  just  now.  But  I 
forgot.  You  will  not  know  her.  She  wanted  long  ago  to 
tell  me  about  him,  and  I  would  not  let  her,  so  she  said  I 
might  learn  for  myself,  and  should  never  leave  off  until  I 
knew  the  lesson  by  heart.  I  think  she  has  kept  her  word," 
she  added,  with  a  heart-sick  sigh. 

"  You  surely  would  not  believe  her  if  she  said  the  same 
thing  fifty  times  over,"  said  I,  not  very  reasonably,  cer- 
tainly. 

"  I  do  not  know,"  she  replied,  hesitatingly.  "  It  is  very 
difficult  to  know." 

"  Well,  I  would  not.  If  the  whole  world  accused  him 
I  would  believe  nothing  except  from  his  own  lips." 

"I  wish  I  knew  all  about  Anna  Sartorius,"  said  she, 
slowly,  and  she  looked  as  if  seeking  back  in  her  memory 
to  remember  some  dream.  I  stood  beside  her;  the  mot- 
ley crowd  ebbed  and  flowed  beneath  us,  but  the  whisper 
we  had  heard  had  changed  everything;  and  yet,  no — to 
me  not  changed,  but  only  darkened  things. 

In  the  mean  time  it  had  been  growing  later.  Our  con- 
versation, with  its  frequent  pauses,  had  taken  a  longer 
time  than  we  had  supposed.  The  crowd  was  thinning. 
Some  of  the  women  were  going. 


274  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

"I  wonder  where  my  sister  is!"  observed  Miss  Weclder- 
burn,  rather  wearily.  Her  face  was  pale,  and  her  delicate 
head  drooped  as  if  it  were  ovenveighed  and  pulled  down 
by  the  superabundance  of  her  beautiful  chestnut  hair, 
which  came  rippling  and  waving  over  her  shoulders.  A 
white  satin  petticoat,  stiff  with  gold  embroidery ;  a  long 
trailing  blue  mantle  of  heavy  brocade,  fastened  on  the 
shoulders  with  golden  clasps;  a  golden  circlet  in  the  gold 
of  her  hair;  such  was  the  dress,  and  right  royally  she  be- 
came it.  She  looked  a  vision  of  loveliness.  I  wondered 
if  she  would  ever  act  Elsa  in  reality;  she  would  be  assur- 
edly the  loveliest  representative  of  that  fair  and  weak- 
minded  heroine  who  ever  trod  the  boards.  Supposing  it 
ever  came  to  pass  that  she  acted  Elsa  to  some  one  else's 
Lohengrin,  would  she  think  of  this  night?  Would  she 
remember  the  great  orchestra — and  me,  and  the  lights, 
and  the  people — our  words — a  whisper? 

A  pause. 

"  But  where  can  Adelaide  be  ?  "  she  said,  at  last.  "  I 
have  not  seen  them  since  they  left  us." 

"They  are  there,"  said  I,  surveying  from  my  vantage- 
ground  the  thinning  ranks.  "They  are  coming  up  here 
too.  And  there  is  the  other  gentleman,  Graf  von  Telra- 
mund,  following  them." 

They  drew  up  to  the  foot  of  the  orchestra,  and  then 
Mr.  Ark wright  came  up  to  seek  us. 

"Miss  Wedderburn,  Lady  Le  Marchant  is  tired  and 
thinks  it  is  time  to  be  going." 

"  So  am  I  tired,"  she  replied.  I  stepped  back,  but  be- 
fore she  went  away  she  turned  to  me,  holding  out  her 
hand: 

"Good-night,  Herr  Helfen.  I,  too,  will  not  believe 
without  proof." 

We  shook  hands,  and  she  went  away. 

The  lamp  still  burning :  the  room  cold,  the  stove  ex- 
tinct.    Eugen  seated  motionless  near  it. 
"  Eugen,  art  thou  asleep  ?  " 
"  I  asleep,  my  clear  boy !     Well,  how  was  it  ?  " 
"  Eugen,  I  wish  you  had  been  there." 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


275 


"Why?"  He  roused  himself  with  an  effort  and  looked 
at  me.  His  brow  was  clouded,  his  eyes  too. 

"Because  you  would  have  enjoyed  it.  I  did.  I  saw 
Miss  Wedderburn,  and  spoke  to  her.  She  looked  lovely." 

"In  that  case  it  would  have  been  odd  indeed  if  you  had 
not  enjoyed  yourself." 

"You  are  inexplicable." 

"  It  is  bed-time,"  he  remarked,  rising  and  speaking,  as  I 
thought,  coldly. 

We  both  retired.  As  for  the  whisper,  frankly  and  hon- 
estly, I  did  not  give  it  another  thought. 


CHAPTER   III. 

MAY'S   STORY. 


SCHUMANN. 


COLLOWING  Arkwright,  I  joined  Adelaide  and 
JP  Von  Francius  at  the  foot  of  the  orchestra.  She  had 
sent  word  that  she  was  tired.  Looking  at  her,  I  thought 
indeed  she  must  be  -very  tired,  so  white,  so  sad  she 
looked. 

"  Adelaide,"  I  expostulated,  "  why  did  you  remain  so 
long  ? " 

'•  Oh,  I  did  not  know  it  was  so  late.     Come  !  " 

We  made  our  way  out  of  the  hall  through  the  verandah 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


277 


to  the  entrance.  Lady  Le  Marchant's  carriage,  it  seemed, 
was  ready  and  waiting.  It  was  a  pouring  night.  The 
thaw  had  begun.  The  steady  down-pour  promised  a 
cheerful  ending  to  the  Carnival  doings  of  the  Monday 
and  Tuesday;  all  but  a  few  homeless  or  persevering 
wretches  had  been  driven  away.  We  drove  away  too. 
I  noticed  that  the  "good-night"  between  Adelaide  and 
Von  Francius  was  of  the  most  laconical  character.  They 
barely  spoke,  did  not  shake  hands,  and  he  turned  and 
went  to  seek  his  cab  before  we  had  all  got  into  the  car- 
riage. 

Adelaide  uttered  not  a  word  during  our  drive  home, 
and  I,  leaning  back,  shut  my  eyes  and  lived  the  evening 
over  again.  Eugen's  friend  had  laughed  the  insidious 
whisper  to  scorn.  I  could  not  deal  so  summarily  with  it ; 
nor  could  I  drive  the  words  of  it  out  of  my  head.  They 
set  themselves  to  the  tune  of  the  waltz,  and  rang  in  my 
ears: 

"He  is  not  honest;  he  is  not  honorable.  It  is  from 
shame  and  disgrace  that  he  is  hiding.  Ask  him  if  he 
remembers  the  2oth  of  April  five  years  ago." 

The  carriage  stopped.  A  sleepy  servant  let  us  in. 
Adelaide,  as  we  went  up-stairs,  drew  me  into  her  dressing- 
room. 

"A  moment,  May.     Have  you  enjoyed  yourself?" 

"  H'm — well — yes,  and  no.     And  you,  Adelaide  ?" 

"I  never  enjoy  myself  now,"  she  replied,  very  gently. 
"I  am  getting  used  to  that,  I  think." 

She  clasped  her  jeweled  hands  and  stood  by  the  lamp, 
whose  calm  light  lit  her  calm  face,  showing  it  wasted  and 
unutterably  sad. 

Something — a  terror,  a  shrinking  as  from  a  strong  men- 
acing hand — shook  me. 

"Are  you  ill,  Adelaide?"  I  cried. 

"  No.  Good-night,  dear  May.  Schlaf  wohl,  as  they 
say  here." 

To  my  unbounded  astonishment,  she  leaned  forward 
and  gave  me  a  gentle  kiss ;  then,  still  holding  my  hand, 
asked : 

"  Do  you  still  say  your  prayers,  May  ?  " 


278 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


"  Sometimes." 

"  What  do  you  say  ?  " 

"  Oh !  the  same  that  I  always  used  to  say ;  they  are 
better  than  any  I  can  invent." 

"Yes.  I  never  do  say  mine  now.  I  rather  think  I 
am  afraid  to  begin  again." 

"Good-night,  Adelaide,"  I  said,  inaudibly;  and  she 
loosed  my  hand. 

At  the  door  I  turned.  She  was  still  standing  by  the 
lamp;  still  her  face  wore  the  same  strange,  subdued  look. 
With  a  heart  oppressed  by  new  uneasiness,  I  left  her. 

It  must  have  been  not  till  towards  dawn  that  I  fell  into 
a  sleep,  heavy,  but  not  quiet — filled  with  fantastic  dreams, 
most  of  which  vanished  as  soon  as  they  had  passed  my 
mind.  But  one  remained.  To  this  day  it  is  as  vivid 
before  me,  as  if  I  had  actually  lived  through  it. 

Meseemed  again  to  be  at  the  Grafenbergerdahl,  again 
to  be  skating,  again  rescued — and  by  Eugen  Courvoisier. 
But  suddenly  the  scene  changed;  from  a  smooth  sheet 
of  ice,  across  which  the  wind  blew  nippingly,  and  above 
which  the  stars  twinkled  frostily,  there  was  a  huge  waste 
of  water  which  raged,  while  a  tempest  howled  around — 
the  clear  moon  was  veiled,  all  was  darkness  and  chaos. 
He  saved  me,  not  by  skating  with  me  to  the  shore,  but 
by  clinging  with  me  to  some  floating  wood  until  we  drove 
upon  a  bank  and  landed.  But  scarcely  had  we  set  foot 
upon  the  ground,  than  all  was  changed  again.  I  was 
alone,  seated  upon  a  bench  in  the  Hofgartcn,  on  a  spring 
afternoon.  It  was  May;  the  chestnuts  and  acacias  were 
in  full  bloom,  and  the  latter  made  the  air  heavy  with  their 
fragrance.  The  nightingales  sang  richly,  and  I  sat  look- 
ing, from  beneath  the  shade  of  a  great  tree,  upon  the 
fleeting  Rhine,  which  glided  by  almost  past  my  feet.  It 
seemed  to  me  that  I  had  been  sad — so  sad  as  never  before. 
A  deep  weight  appeared  to  have  been  just  removed  from 
my  heart,  and  yet  so  heavy  had  it  been  that  I  could  not 
at  once  recover  from  its  pressure;  and  even  then,  in  the 
sunshine,  and  feeling  that  I  had  no  single  cause  for  care 
or  grief,  I  was  unhappy,  with  a  reflex  mournfulness. 

And  as  I  sat  thus,  it  seemed  that  some  one  came  and 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


279 


sat  beside  me  without  speaking,  and  I  did  not  turn  to 
look  at  him ;  but  ever  as  1  sat  there  and  felt  that  he  was 
beside  me,  the  sadness  lifted  from  my  heart,  until  it  grew 
so  full  of  joy  that  tears  rose  to  my  eyes.  Then  he  who 
was  beside  me  placed  his  hand  upon  mine,  and  I  looked 
at  him.  It  was  Eugen  Courvoisier.  His  face  and  his 
eyes  were  full  of  sadness;  but  I  knew  that  he  loved  me, 
though  he  said  but  one  word,  "  Forgive ! "  to  which  I 
answered,  "  Can  you  forgive  ?  "  But  I  knew  that  I  al- 
luded to  something  much  deeper  than  that  silly  little 
episode  of  having  cut  him  at  the  theatre.  He  bowed  his 
head ;  and  then  I  thought  I  began  to  weep,  covering  my 
face  with  my  hands;  but  they  were  tears  of  exquisite  joy, 
and  the  peace  at  my  heart  was  the  most  entire  I  had  ever 
felt.  And  he  loosened  my  hands,  and  drew  me  to  him 
and  kissed  me,  saying  "  My  love ! "  And  as  I  felt — yes, 
actually  felt — the  pressure  of  his  lips  upon  mine,  and  felt 
the  spring  shining  upon  me,  and  heard  the  very  echo 
of  the  twitter  of  the  birds,  saw  the  light  fall  upon  the 
water,  and  smclled  the  scent  of  the  acacias,  and  saw  the 
Lotusblume  as  she — 

"Duftet  und  weinet  und  zittert 
Vor  Liebe  und  Liebesweh," 

I  awoke,  and  confronted  a  gray  February  morning,  felt  a 
raw  chilliness  in  the  air,  heard  a  cold,  pitiless  rain  driven 
against  the  window;  knew  that  my  head  ached,  my  heart 
harmonized  therewith;  that  I  was  awake,  not  in  a  dream  ; 
that  there  had  been  no  spring  morning,  no  acacias,  no 
nightingales:  above  all,  no  love — remembered  last  night, 
and  roused  to  the  consciousness  of  another  day,  the  ne- 
cessity of  waking  up  and  living  on. 

Nor  could  I  rest  or  sleep.  I  rose  and  contemplated 
through  the  window  the  driving  rain  and  the  soaking 
street,  the  sorrowful  naked  trees,  the  plain  of  the  parade 
ground,  which  looked  a  mere  waste  of  mud  and  half- 
melted  ice;  the  long  plain  line  of  the  Caserne  itself — a 
cheering  prospect,  truly ! 

When  I  went  down-stairs  I  found  Sir  Peter,  in  heavy 
traveling  overcoat,  standing  in  the  hall ;  a  carriage  stood 


28o  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

at  the  door ;  his  servant  was  putting  in  his  master's  lug- 
gage and  rugs.  I  paused  in  astonishment.  Sir  Peter 
looked  at  me  and  smiled  with  the  dubious  benevolence 
which  he  was  in  the  habit  of  extending  to  me. 

"  I  am  very  sorry  to  be  obliged  to  quit  your  charming 
society,  Miss  Wedderburn,  but  business  calls  me  impera- 
tively to  England ;  and,  at  least,  I  am  sure  that  my  wife 
cannot  be  unhappy  with  such  a  companion  as  her  sister." 

"  You  are  going  to  England  ?  " 

"I  am  going  to  England.  I  have  been  called  so 
hastily  that  I  can  make  no  arrangements  for  Adelaide  to 
accompany  me,  and  indeed  it  would  not  be  at  all  pleasant 
for  her,  as  I  am  only  going  on  business ;  but  I  hope  to 
return  for  her  and  bring  her  home  in  a  few  weeks.  I  am 
leaving  Arkwright  with  you.  He  will  see  that  you  have 
all  you  want." 

Sir  Peter  was  smiling,  ever  smiling,  with  the  smile 
which  was  my  horror. 

"A  brilliant  ball,  last  night,  was  it  not?  "he  added, 
extending  his  hand  to  me,  in  farewell,  and  looking  at  me 
intently  with  eyes  that  fascinated  and  repelled  me  at  once. 

"  Very,  but — but — you  were  not  there  ?  " 

"Was  I  not?  I  have  a  strong  impression  that  I  was. 
Ask  my  lady  if  she  thinks  I  was  there.  And  now  good- 
bye, and  au  revoir  !  " 

He  loosened  my  hand,  descended  the  steps,  entered 
the  carriage,  and  was  driven  away.  His  departure  ought 
to  have  raised  a  great  weight  from  my  mind,  but  it  did 
not :  it  impressed  me  with  a  sense  of  coming  disaster. 

Adelaide  breakfasted  in  her  room.  When  I  had  fin- 
ished I  went  to  her.  Her  behavior  puzzled  me.  She 
seemed  elated,  excited,  at  the  absence  of  Sir  Peter,  and 
yet,  suddenly  turning  to  me,  she  exclaimed,  eagerly : 

"Oh,  May !  I  wish  I  had  been  going  to  England,  too ! 
I  wish  I  could  leave  this  place,  and  never  see  it  again ! " 

"  Was  Sir  Peter  at  the  ball,  Adelaide  ?  "  I  asked. 

She  turned  suddenly  pale :  her  lip  trembled ;  her  eye 
wavered,  as  she  said  in  a  low,  uneasy  voice : 

"I  believe  he  was — yes;  in  domino." 

"What  a  sneaking  thing  to  do!"  I  remarked,  candidly. 
"  He  had  told  us  particularly  that  he  was  not  coming." 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  281 

"  That  very  statement  should  have  put  us  on  our  guard," 
she  remarked. 

"  On  our  guard?  Against  what?"  I  asked,  unsuspect- 
ingly. 

"Oh,  nothing — nothing!  I  wonder  when  he  will  re- 
turn! I  would  give  a  world  to  be  in  England !  "  she  said, 
with  a  heart-sick  sigh  j  and  I,  feeling  very  much  bewil- 
dered, left  her. 

In  the  afternoon,  despite  wind  and  weather,  I  sallied 
forth,  and  took  my  way  to  my  old  lodgings  in  the  Wehr- 
hahn.  Crossing  a  square  leading  to  the  street  I  was  go- 
ing to,  I  met  Anna  Sartorius.  She  bowed,  looking  at  me 
mockingly.  I  returned  her  salutation,  and  remembered 
last  night  again  with  painful  distinctness.  The  air  seem- 
ed full  of  mysteries  and  uncertainties :  they  clung  about 
my  mind  like  cobwebs,  and  I  could  not  get  rid  of  their 
soft,  stifling  influence. 

Having  arrived  at  my  lodgings,  I  mounted  the  stairs. 
Frau  Liitzler  met  me. 

"Na,  na,  Frdnlein!  You  do  not  patronize  me  much 
now.  My  rooms  are  becoming  too  small  for  you,  I  reck- 
on." 

"Indeed,  Frau  Ltitzler,  I  wish  I  had  never  been  in  any 
larger  ones,"  I  answered  her,  earnestly. 

"  So !  Well,  'tis  true  you  look  thin  and  worn — not  as 
well  as  you  used  to.  And  were  you — but  I  heard  you 
were,  so  where's  the  use  of  telling  lies  about  it — at  the 
Maskenball  last  night  ?  And  how  did  you  like  it  ?  " 

"  Oh,  it  was  all  very  new  to  me.  1  never  was  at  one 
before." 

"Nicht?  Then  you  must  have  been  astonished.  They 
say  there  was  a  Mephisto  so  good  he  would  have  deceiv- 
ed the  devil  himself.  And  you,  Frdulein — I  heard  that 
you  looked  very  beautiful." 

"  So!     It  must  have  been  a  mistake." 

'•'•Dock  nic/it!  1  have  always  maintained  that  at  cer- 
tain times  you  were  far  from  bad-looking,  and  dressed  and 
got  up  for  the  stage,  would  be  absolutely  handsome. 
Nearly  any  one  can  be  that — if  you  are  not  too  near  the 
footlights,  that  is,  and  don't  go  behind  the  scenes." 


282  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

With  which  neat  slaying  of  a  particular  compliment  by 
a  general  one,  she  released  me,  and  let  me  go  on  my  way 
up-stairs. 

Here  I  had  some  books  and  some  music.  But  the 
room  was  cold;  the  books  failed  to  interest  me,  and  the 
music  did  not  go— the  piano  was  like  me — out  of  tune. 
And  yet  I  felt  the  need  of  some  musical  expression  of  the 
mood  that  was  upon  me.  I  bethought  myself  of  the  Ton- 
halle,  next  door,  almost,  and  that  in  the  Rittersaal  it 
would  be  quiet  and  undisturbed,  as  the  ball  that  night  was 
not  to  be  held  there,  but  in  one  of  the  large  rooms  of  the 
Caserne. 

Without  pausing  to  think  a  second  time  of  the  plan,  I 
left  the  house  and  went  to  the  Tonlialle,  only  a  few  steps 
away.  In  consequence  of  the  rain  and  bad  weather  al- 
most every  trace  of  the  Carnival  had  disappeared.  I 
found  the  Tonhalle  deserted  save  by  a  bar-maid  at  the 
restauration.  I  asked  her  if  the  Rittersaal  were  open, 
and  she  said  yes.  I  passed  on.  As  I  drew  near  the  door 
I  heard  music;  the  piano  was  already  being  played. 
Could  it  be  Von  Francius  who  was  there  ?  I  did  not 
think  so.  The  touch  was  not  his — neither  so  practiced, 
so  brilliant,  nor  so  sure. 

Satisfied,  after  listening  a  moment,  that  it  was  not  he,  I 
resolved  to  go  in  and  pass  through  the  room.  If  it  were 
any  one  whom  I  could  send  away  I  would  do  so,  if  not,  I 
could  go  away  again  myself. 

I  entered.  The  room  was  somewhat  dark,  but  I  went 
in  and  had  almost  come  to  the  piano  before  I  recognized 
the  player — Courvoisier.  Overcome  with  vexation  and 
confusion  at  the  contretremps,  I  paused  a  moment,  unde- 
cided whether  to  turn  back  and  go  out  again.  In  any 
case  I  resolved  not  to  remain  in  the  room.  He  was  seat- 
ed with  his  back  to  me,  and  still  continued  to  play.  Some 
music  was  on  the  desk  of  the  piano  before  him. 

I  might  turn  back  without  being  observed.  I  would  do 
so.  Hardly,  though — a  mirror  hung  directly  before  the 
piano,  and  I  now  saw  that  while  he  continued  to  play, 
he  was  quietly  looking  at  me,  and  that  his  keen  eyes — 
that  hawk's  glance  which  I  knew  so  well — must  have  rec- 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


283 


ognized  me.  That  decided  me.  I  would  not  turn  back. 
It  would  be  a  silly,  senseless  proceeding,  and  would  look 
much  more  invidious  than  my  remaining.  I  walked  up 
to  the  piano,  and  he  turned,  still  playing. 

"  Guten  Tag,  mein  Friiulien" 

I  merely  bowed,  and  began  to  search  through  a  pile  of 
songs  and  music  upon  the  piano.  I  would  at  any  rate 
take  some  away  with  me  to  give  some  color  to  my  pro- 
ceedings. Meanwhile  he  played  on. 

I  selected  a  song,  not  in  the  least  knowing  what  it  was, 
and  rolling  it  up,  was  turning  away. 

"Are  you  busy,  Miss  Wedderburn?  " 

«  N— no." 

"  Would  it  be  asking  too  much  of  you  to  play  the  piano- 
forte accompaniment  ?  " 

"  I  will  try,"  said  I,  speaking  briefly,  and  slowly  draw- 
ing off  my  gloves. 

"  If  it  is  disagreeable  to  you,  don't  do  it,"  said  he,  paus- 
ing. 

"  Not  in  the  very  least,"  said  I,  avoiding  looking  at 
him. 

He  opened  the  music.  It  was  one  of  Jensen's  Wan- 
derbilder  for  piano  and  violin — the  Kreuz  am  Wege. 

"  I  have  only  tried  it  once  before,"  I  remarked,  "  and  I 
am  a  dreadful  bungler." 

"  Bitle  sehr.'"  said  he,  smiling,  arranging  his  own  music 
on  one  of  the  stands  and  adding,  "  Now  I  am  ready." 

I  found  my  hands  trembling  so  much  that  I  could 
scarcely  follow  the  music.  Truly  this  man,  with  his 
changes  from  silence  to  talkativeness,  from  ironical  hard- 
ness to  cordiality,  was  a  puzzle  and  a  trial  to  me. 

Das  Kreuz  am  Wege  turned  out  rather  lame.  I  said  so 
when  it  was  over. 

"  Suppose  we  try  it  again,"  he  suggested,  and  we  did  so. 
I  found  my  fingers  lingering  and  forgetting  their  part  as  I 
listened  to  the  piercing  beauty  of  his  notes. 

"  That  is  dismal,"  said  he. 

"It  is  a  dismal  subject,  is  it  not  ?" 

"  Suggestive,  at  least.  '  The  Cross  by  the  Wayside.' 
Well,  I  have  a  mind  for  something  more  cheerful.  Did 
you  leave  the  ball  early  last  night  ?  " 


2g4  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

"  No;  not  very  early." 

"Did  you  enjoy  it?  " 

"  It  was  all  new  to  me — very  interesting — but  I  don't 
think  I  quite  enjoyed  it." 

"  Ah,  you  should  see  the  balls  at  Florence,  or  Venice, 
or  Vienna ! " 

He  smiled  as  he  leaned  back,  as  if  thinking  over  past 
scenes. 

"  Yes,"  said  I,  dubiously,  "  I  don't  think  I  care  much 
for  such  things,  though  it  is  interesting  to  watch  the  little 
drama  going  on  around." 

"And  to  act  in  it,"  I  also  thought,  remembering  Anna 
Sartorius  and  her  whisper,  and  I  looked  at  him.  "Not 
honest,  not  honorable.  Hiding  from  shame  and  disgrace." 
I  looked  at  him  and  did  not  believe  it.  For  the  moment 
the  torturing  idea  left  me.  I  was  free  from  it  and  at 
peace. 

"  Were  you  going  to  practice  ?  "  he  asked.  "  I  fear  I 
disturb  you." 

"  Oh,  no !  It  does  not  matter  in  the  least.  I  shall 
not  practice  now." 

"  I  want  to  try  some  other  things,"  said  he,  "  and  Fried- 
helm's  and  my  piano  was  not  loud  enough  for  me,  nor 
was  there  sufficient  space  between  our  walls  for  the  sounds 
of  a  Symphony.  Do  you  not  know  the  mood?  " 

"Yes." 

"  But  I  am  afraid  to  ask  you  to  accompany  me." 

"Why?" 

"You  seem  unwilling." 

"  I  am  not ;  but  I  should  have  supposed  that  my  un- 
willingness— if  I  had  been  unwilling — would  have  been 
an  inducement  to  you  to  ask  me." 

"Herrgott.'     Why?" 

"Since  you  took  a  vow  to  be  disagreeable  to  me,  and 
to  make  me  hate  you." 

A  slight  flush  passed  rapidly  over  his  face,  as  he  paused 
for  a  moment  and  bit  his  lips. 

"Mein  Franlein — that  night  I  was  in  bitterness  of  spirit 
— I  hardly  knew  what  I  was  saying — " 

"  I  will  accompany  you,"  I  interrupted  him,  my  heart 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  285 

beating.     "  Only  how  can  I  begin  unless  you  play,  or  tell 
me  what  you  want  to  play  ?  " 

"True,"  said  he,  laughing,  and  yet  not  moving  from  his 
place  beside  the  piano,  upon  which  he  had  leaned  his  el- 
bow, and  across  which  he  now  looked  at  me  with  the  self- 
same kindly,  genial  glance  as  that  he  had  cast  upon  me 
across  the  little  table  at  the  Koln  restaurant.  And  yet 
not  the  self-same  glance,  but  another,  which  I  would  not 
have  exchanged  for  that  first  one. 

If  he  would  but  begin  to  play  I  felt  that  I  should  not 
mind  so  much ;  but  when  he  sat  there  and  looked  at  me 
and  half  smiled,  without  beginning  anything  practical,  I 
felt  the  situation  at  least  trying. 

He  raised  his  eyes  as  the  door  opened  at  the  other  end 
of  the  saal. 

"  Ah,  there  is  Friedhelm,"  said  he,  "  now  he  will  take 
seconds," 

"  Then  I  will  not  disturb  you  any  longer." 

"  On  the  contrary,"  said  he,  laying  his  hand  upon  my 
wrist.  (My  dream  of  the  morning  flashed  into  my  mind.) 
"It  would  be  better  if  you  remained,  then  we  could  have 
a  trio.  Friedel,  come  here!  You  are  just  in  time. 
Fraulein  Wedderburn  will  be  good  enough  to  accompany 
us,  and  we  can  try  the  Fourth  Symphony." 

"What  you  call 'Spring' ?"  inquired  Helfen,  coming 
up  smilingly.  "  With  all  my  heart.  Where  is  the  score  ?  " 

"  What  yoii  call  Spring?"  Was  it  possible  that  in 
Winter — on  a  cold  and  unfriendly  day — we  were  going  to 
have  Spring,  leafy  bloom,  the  desert  filled  with  leaping 
springs,  and  blossoming  like  a  rose  ?  Full  of  wonder, 
surprise,  and  a  certain  excitement  at  the  idea,  I  sat  still 
and  thought  of  my  dream,  and  the  rain  beat  against  the 
windows,  and  a  draughty  wind  fluttered  the  tinselly  dec- 
orations of  last  night.  The  floor  was  strewed  with  frag- 
ments of  garments  torn  in  the  crush — paper  and  silken 
flowers,  here  a  rosette,  there  a  buckle,  a  satin  bow,  a  tin- 
sel spangle.  Benches  and  tables  were  piled  about  the 
room,  which  was  half  dark;  only  to  westward,  through 
one  window,  was  visible  a  paler  gleam,  which  might  by 
comparison  be  called  light. 


286  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

The  two  young  men  turned  over  the  music,  laughing 
at  something,  and  chaffing  each  other.  I  never  in  my 
life  saw  two  such  entire  friends  as  these;  they  seemed  to 
harmonize  most  perfectly  in  the  midst  of  their  unlikeness 
to  each  other. 

"  Excuse  that  we  kept  you  waiting,  mein  Fraukin"  said 
Courvoisier,  placing  some  music  before  me.  "  This  fel- 
low is  so  slow,  and  will  put  everything  into  order  as  he 
uses  it." 

"  Well  for  you  that  I  am,  mein  Lieber"  said  Helfen, 
composedly.  "  If  any  one  had  the  enterprise  to  offer  a 
prize  to  the  most  extravagant,  untidy  fellow  in  Europe, 
the  palm  would  be  yours  —  by  a  long  way  too." 

"  Friedel  binds  his  music  and  numbers  it,"  observed 
Couvoisier.  "  It  is  one  one  of  the  most  beautiful  and 
affecting  of  sights  to  behold  him  with  scissors,  paste-pot, 
brush  and  binding.  It  occurs  periodically  about  four 
times  a  year,  I  think,  and  moves  me  almost  to  tears 
when  I  see  it." 

"  Der  edle  Rittcr  leaves  his  music  unbound,  and  borrows 
mine  on  every  possible  occasion  when  his  own  property 
is  scattered  to  the  four  winds  of  heaven." 

11  Aber!  aber!"  cried  Eugen.  "That  is  too  much! 
I  call  Frau  Schmidt  to  witness  that  all  my  music  is  put 
in  one  place." 

"  I  never  said  it  wasn't.  But  you  never  can  find  it 
when  you  want  it,  and  the  confusion  is  delightfully  in- 
creased by  your  constantly  rushing  off  to  buy  a  new  parti- 
tur  when  you  can't  find  the  old  one;  so  you  have  three 
or  four  of  each." 

"  This  is  all  to  show  off  what  he  considers  his  own 
good  qualities  ;  a  certain  slow,  methodical  plodding,  and 
a  good  memory,  which  are  natural  gifts,  but  which  h<j 
boasts  of  as  if  they  were  acquired  virtues.  He  binds  his 
music  because  he  is  a  pedant  and  a  prig,  and  can't  help 
it  :  a  bad  fellow  to  get  on  with.  Now,  mein  Eester,  foi 
the 


"  But  the  Frdulein  ought  to  have  it  explained,"  expost- 
ulated Helfen,  laughing.  "  Every  one  has  not  the  mis- 
fortune to  be  so  well  acquainted  with  you  as  I  am.  He 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


287 


has  rather  insane  fancies,  sometimes,"  he  added,  turning 
to  me,  "  without  rhyme  or  reason  that  I  am  aware,  and 
he  chooses  to  assert  that  Beethoven's  Fourth  Symphony, 
or  the  chief  motive  of  it,  occurred  to  him  on  a  spring  day, 
when  the  master  was,  for  a  time,  quite  charmed  from  his 
bitter  humor,  and  had,  perhaps,  some  one  by  his  side  who 
put  his  heart  in  tune  with  the  spring  songs  of  the  birds, 
the  green  of  the  grass,  the  scent  of  the  flowers.  So  he 
calls  it  the  Fruhling  Symphonic,  and  will  persist  in  playing 
it  as  such,  I  call  the  idea  rather  far-fetched,  but  then 
that  is  nothing  unusual  with  him." 

"  Having  said  your  remarkably  stupid  say,  which  Miss 
Wedderburn  has  far  too  much  sense  to  heed  in  the  least, 
suppose  you  allow  us  to  begin,"  said  Courvoisier,  giving 
the  other  a  push  towards  his  violin. 

But  we  were  destined  to  have  yet  another  coadjutor 
in  the  shape  of  Karl  Linders,  who  at  that  moment  strolled 
in,  and  was  hailed  by  his  friends  with  jubilation. 

"  Come  and  help !  Your  cello  will  give  just  the  mel- 
lowness that  is  wanted,"  said  Eugen. 

"  I  must  go  and  get  it  then,"  said  Karl,  looking  at  me. 

Eugen,  with  an  indescribable  expression  as  he  inter- 
cepted the  glance,  introduced  us  to  one  another.  Karl 
and  Friedhelm  Helfen  went  off  to  another  part  of  the 
Tonhalle  to  fetch  Karl's  violoncello,  and  we  were  left 
alone  again. 

"  Perhaps  I  ought  not  to  have  introduced  him.  I  for- 
got Lohengrin"  said  Eugen. 

"  You  know  that  you  did  not"  said  I,  in  a  low  voice. 

"  No,"  he  answered,  almost  in  the  same  tone.  "  It  was 
thinking  of  that  which  led  me  to  introduce  poor  old  Karl 
to  you.  I  thought,  perhaps,  that  you  would  accept  it  as 
a  sign — will  you  ?  " 

"  A  sign  of  what  ?  " 

"  That  I  feel  myself  to  have  been  in  the  wrong  through- 
out— and  forgive." 

As  I  sat,  amazed  and  a  little  awed  at  this  almost  literal 
fulfillment  of  my  dream,  the  others  returned. 

Karl  contributed  the  tones  of  his  mellowest  of  instru- 
ments, which  he  played  with  a  certain  pleasant  breadth 


2 88  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

and  brightness  of  coloring,  and  my  dream  came  ever 
truer  and  truer.  The  Symphony  was  as  spring-like  as 
possible.  We  tried  it  nearly  all  through :  the  hymn-like 
and  yet  fairy-like  first  movement ;  the  second,  that  song  of 
universal  love,  joy,  and  thanksgiving,  with  Beethoven's 
masculine  hand  evident  throughout.  To  the  notes  there 
seemed  to  fall  a  sunshine  into  the  room,  and  we  could 
see  the  fields  casting  their  covering  of  snow,  and  withered 
trees  bursting  into  bloom ;  brooks  swollen  with  warm  rain, 
birds  busy  at  nest-making;  clumps  of  primroses  on  vel- 
vet leaves,  and  the  subtle  scent  of  violets;  youths  and 
maidens  with  love  in  their  eyes ;  and  even  a  hint  of  later 
warmth,  when  hedges  should  be  white  with  hawthorn, 
and  the  woodland  slopes  look,  with  their  sheets  of  hya- 
cinths, as  if  some  of  heaven's  blue  had  been  spilled  upon 
earth's  grass. 

As  the  last  strong,  melodious  modulations  ceased,  Cour- 
voisier  pointed  to  one  of  the  windows. 

"  Friedhelm,  you  wretched  unbeliever,  behold  the  ref- 
utation of  your  theories.  The  Symphony  has  brought  the 
sun  out." 

"  For  the  first  time,"  said  Friedhelm,  as  he  turned  his 
earnest  young  face  with  its  fringe  of  loose  brown  hair 
towards  the  sneaking  sunray,  which  was  certainly  looking 
shyly  in.  "  As  a  rule  the  very  heavens  weep  at  the  per- 
formance. Don't  you  remember  the  last  time  we  tried  it, 
it  began  to  rain  instantly  ?  " 

"Miss  Wedderburn's  co-operation  must  have  secured 
its  success  then  on  this  occasion,"  said  Eugen,  gravely, 
glancing  at  me  for  a  moment. 

"Hear!  hear!"  murmured  Karl,  screwing  up  his  vio- 
loncello and  smiling  furtively. 

"  Oh,  I  am  afraid  I  hindered  rather  than  helped,"  said 
I;  "but  it  is  very  beautiful." 

"  But  not  like  Spring,  is  it  ?  "  asked  Friedhelm. 

"  Well,  I  think  it  is." 

"There!  I  knew  she  would  declare  for  me,"  said  Cour- 
voisier,  calmly,  at  which  Karl  Linders  looked  up  in  some 
astonishment. 

"  Shall  we  try  this  Traiimerd,  Miss  Wedderburn,  if 
you  are  not  too  tired  ?  " 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


289 


I  turned  willingly  to  the  piano,  and  we  played  Schu- 
mann's little  "Dreams." 

"Ah,"  said  Eugen,  with  a  deep  sigh  (and  his  face  had 
grown  sad),  "isn't  that  the  essence  of  sweetness  and  poet- 
ry ?  Here's  another  which  is  lovely.  Noch  ein  Paar, 
nicht  wahr  ?  " 

"  And  it  will  be  noch  ein  Paar  until  our  fingers  drop 
off,"  scolded  Friedhelm,  who  seemed,  however,  very  will- 
ing to  await  that  consummation.  We  went  through  many 
of  the  Kinderscenen  and  some  of  the  Kreisskriana,  and 
just  as  we  finished  a  sweet  little  Bittendes  Kind,  the  twi- 
light grew  almost  into  darkness,  and  Courvoisier  laid  his 
violin  down. 

"Miss  Wedderburn,  thank  you  a  thousand  times!" 

"Oh,  bitte  sehr !"  was  all  I  could  say.  I  wanted  to 
say  so  much  more ;  to  say  that  I  had  been  made  happy ; 
my  sadness  dispelled,  a  dream  half  fulfilled,  but  the  words 
stuck,  and  had  they  come  ever  so  flowingly  I  could  not 
have  uttered  them  with  Friedhelm  Helfen,  who  knew  so 
much,  looking  at  us,  and  Karl  Linders  on  his  best  be- 
havior in-*what  he  considered  superior  company. 

I  do  not  know  how  it  was  that  Karl  and  Friedhelm,  as 
we  all  came  from  the  Tonhalle,  walked  off  to  the  house, 
and  Eugen  and  I  were  left  to  walk  alone  through  the 
soaking  streets,  emptied  of  all  their  revelers,  and  along 
the  dripping  Konigsallee,  with  its  leafless  chestnuts,  to  Sir 
Peter's  house.  It  was  cold,  it  was  wet — cheerless,  dark, 
and  dismal,  and  I  was  very  happy — very  insanely  so.  I 
gave  a  glance  once  or  twice  at  my  companion.  The 
brightness  had  left  his  face;  it  was  stern  and  worn  again, 
and  his  lips  set  as  if  with  the  repression  of  some  pain. 

"  Herr  Courvoisier,  have  you  heard  from  your  little 
boy  ?  " 

"No." 

«  No  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  expect  to  hear  from  him,  mein  Fraulein. 
When  he  left  me  we  parted  altogether." 

"Oh,  how  dreadful!" 

No  answer.  And  we  spoke  no  more  until  he  said 
"Good-evening"  to  me  at  the  door  of  No.  3.  As  I  went 
»9 


2QO 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


in  I  reflected  that  I  might  never  meet  him  thus  face  to 
face  again.  Was  it  an  opportunity  missed,  or  was  it  a 
brief  glimpse  of  unexpected  joy  ? 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE    TRUTH. 

AS  days  went  on  and  grew  into  weeks,  and  weeks  paired 
off  until  a  month  passed,  and  I  still  saw  the  same 
stricken  look  upon  my  sister's  face,  my  heart  grew  full  of 
foreboding. 

One  morning  the  astonishing  news  came  that  Sir  Peter 
had  gone  to  America. 

"America!"  I  ejaculated  (it  was  always  I  who  acted 
the  part  of  chorus  and  did  the  exclamations  and  question- 
ing), and  I  looked  at  Harry  Arkwright,  who  had  commu- 
nicated the  news,  and  who  held  an  open  letter  in  his  hand. 

"  Yes,  to  America,  to  see  about  a  railway  which  looks 
very  bad.  He  has  no  end  of  their  bonds,"  said  Harry, 
folding  up  the  letter. 

"  When  will  he  return  ?  " 

"He  doesn't  know.  Meanwhile  we  are  to  stay  where 
we  are." 

Adelaide,  when  we  spoke  of  this  circumstance,  said,  bit- 
terly : 

"  Everything  is  against  me ! " 

"Against  you,  Adelaide?"  said  I,  looking  apprehen- 
sively at  her. 

"Yes,  everything!"  she  repeated. 

She  had  never  been  effusive  in  her  behavior  to  others; 
she  was  now,  if  possible,  still  less  so,  but  the  uniform  quiet- 
ness and  gentleness  with  which  she  now  treated  all  who 
came  in  contact  with  her,  puzzled  and  troubled  me.  What 


292  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

was  it  that  preyed  upon  her  mind?  In  looking  round 
for  a  cause  my  thoughts  lighted  rirst  on  one  person,  then 
on  another :  I  dismissed  the  idea  of  all,  except  Von  Fran- 
cius,  with  a  smile.  Shortly  I  abandoned  that  idea  too. 
True,  he  was  a  man  of  very  different  calibre  from  the 
others;  a  man,  too,  for  whom  Adelaide  had  conceived 
a  decided  friendship,  though  in  these  latter  days  even  that 
seemed  to  be  dying  out.  He  did  not  come  so  often; 
when  he  did  come  they  had  little  to  say  to  each  other. 
Perhaps,  after  all,  the  cause  of  her  sadness  lay  no  deeper 
than  her  every-day  life,  which  must  necessarily  grow  more 
mournful  day  by  day.  She  could  feel  intensely,  as  I  had 
lately  become  aware,  and  had,  too,  a  warm,  quick  imagi- 
nation. It  might  be  that  a  simple  weariness  of  life  and 
the  anticipation  of  long  years  to  come  of  such  a  life  lay  so 
heavily  upon  her  soul  as  to  have  wrought  that  gradual 
change. 

Sometimes  I  was  satisfied  with  this  theory ;  at  others  it 
dwindled  into  a  miserably  inadequate  measure.  When 
Adelaide  once  or  twice  kissed  me,  smiled  at  me,  and 
called  me  "dear,"  it  was  on  my  lips  to  ask  the  meaning 
of  the  whole  thing,  but  it  never  passed  them.  I  dared  not 
speak  when  it  came  to  the  point. 

One  day,  about  this  time,  I  met  Anna  Sartorius  in  one 
of  the  picture  exhibitions.  I  would  have  bowed  and 
passed  her,  but  she  stopped  and  spoke  to  me. 

"  I  tyive  not  seen  you  often  lately,"  said  she ;  "  but  I  as- 
sure you,  you  will  hear  more  of  me  sometime — and  before 
long." 

Without  replying,  I  passed  on.  Anna  had  ceased  even 
to  pretend  to  look  friendly  upon  me,  and  I  did  not  feel 
much  alarm  as  to  her  power  for  or  against  my  happiness 
or  peace  of  mind. 

Regularly,  once  a  month,  I  wrote  to  Miss  Hallam,  and 
occasionally  had  a  few  lines  from  Stella,  who  had  become 
a  pmtf^cc  of  Miss  Hallam's  too.  They  appeared  to  get 
on  very  \\xll  together,  at  which  I  did  not  wonder;  for 
Stella,  with  all  her  youth  fulness,  was  of  a  cynical  turn  of 
mind,  which  must  suit  Miss  Hallam  well. 

My  greatest  friend  in  Elberthal  was  good  little  Doctor 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


293 


Mittendorf,  who  had  brought  his  wife  to  call  upon  me, 
and  to  whose  house  I  had  been  invited  several  times  since 
Miss  Hallam's  departure. 

During  this  time  I  worked  more  steadily  than  ever,  and 
with  a  deeper  love  of  my  art  for  itself.  Von  Francius 
was  still  my  master  and  my  friend.  I  used  to  look  back 
upon  the  days,  now  nearly  a  year  ago,  when  I  first  saw 
him,  and  seeing  him,  distrusted  and  only  half-liked  him, 
and  wondered  at  myself;  for  I  had  now  as  entire  a  confi- 
dence in  him  as  can  by  any  means  be  placed  in  a  man. 
He  had  thoroughly  won  my  esteem,  respect,  admiration — 
in  a  measure,  too,  my  affection.  I  liked  the  power  of  him  ; 
the  strong  hand  with  which  he  carried  things  in  his  own 
way ;  the  idiomatic  language,  and  quick,  curt  sentences 
in  which  he  enunciated  his  opinions.  I  felt  him  like  a 
strong,  kind,  and  thoughtful  elder  brother,  and  have  had 
abundant  evidence  in  his  deeds  and  in  some  brief  unemo- 
tional words  of  his  that  he  felt  a  great  regard  of  the  fra- 
ternal kind  for  me.  It  has  often  comforted  me,  that 
friendship — pure,  disinterested  and  manly  on  his  side, 
grateful  and  unwavering  on  mine. 

I  still  retained  my  old  lodgings  in  the  Wehrhahn,  and 
was  determined  to  do  so.  I  would  not  be  tied  to  remain 
in  Sir  Peter  Le  Marchant's  house  unless  I  chose.  Ade- 
laide wished  me  to  come  and  remain  with  her  altogether. 
She  said  Sir  Peter  wished  it  too ;  he  had  written  and  said 
she  might  ask  me.  I  asked  what  was  Sir  Peter's  motive 
in  wishing  it  ?  Was  it  not  a  desire  to  humiliate  both  of 
us,  and  to  show  us  that  we — the  girl  who  had  scorned 
him,  and  the  woman  who  had  sold  herself  to  him — were 
in  the  end  dependent  upon  him,  and  must  follow  his  will 
and  submit  to  his  pleasure  ? 

She  reddened,  sighed,  and  owned  that  it  was  true ;  nor 
did  she  press  me  any  further. 

A  month,  then,  elapsed  between  the  Carnival  in  Feb- 
ruary and  the  next  great  concert  in  the  latter  end  of 
March.  It  was  rather  a  special  concert,  for  Von  Francius 
had  succeeded,  in  spite  of  many  obstacles,  in  bringing  out 
the  Choral  Symphony. 

He  conducted  well  that  night ;  and  he,  Courvoisier, 


2g4  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

Friedhelm  Helfen,  Karl  Linders,  and  one  or  two  others, 
formed  in  their  white  heat  of  enthusiasm  a  leaven  which 
leavened  the  whole  lump.  Orchestra  and  chorus  alike 
did  a  little  more  than  their  possible,  without  which  no 
great  enthusiasm  can  be  carried  out.  As  I  watched  Von 
Francius,  it  seemed  to  me  that  a  new  soul  had  entered 
into  the  man.  I  did  not  believe  that  a  year  ago  he  could 
have  conducted  the  Choral  Symphony  as  he  did  that 
night.  Can  any  one  enter  into  the  broad,  eternal  clang 
of  the  great  "world-story"  unless  he  has  a  private  story 
of  his  own  which  may  serve  him  in  some  measure  as  a 
key  to  its  mystery  ?  I  think  not.  It  was  a  night  of 
triumph  for  Max  von  Francius.  Not  only  was  the  glori- 
ous music  cheered  and  applauded,  he  was  called  to  receive 
a  meed  of  thanks  for  having  once  more  given  to  the  world 
a  never-dying  joy  and  beauty. 

I  was  in  the  chorus.  Down  below  I  saw  Adelaide  and 
her  devoted  attendant,  Harry  Arkwright.  She  looked 
whiter  and  more  subdued  than  ever.  All  the  splendor  of 
the  praise  of  "joy"  could  not  bring  joy  to  her  heart — 

"  Diesen  Kuss  der  ganzen  Welt  " 

brought  no  warmth  to  her  cheek,  nor  lessened  the  load  on 
ner  breast. 

The  concert  over,  we  returned  home.  Adelaide  and  I 
retired  to  her  dressing-room,  and  her  maid  brought  us  tea. 
She  seated  herself  in  silence.  For  my  part,  I  was  excited 
and  hot,  and  felt  my  cheeks  glowing.  I  was  so  stirred 
that  I  could  not  sit  still,  but  moved  to  and  fro,  wishing 
that  all  the  world  could  hear  that  music,  and  repeating 
lines  from  the  Ode  to  Joy,  the  grand  march-like  measure, 
feeling  my  heart  uplifted  with  the  exaltation  of  its  open- 
ing strain : 

"  Freude,  schoner  Gotterfunken  ! 
Tochter  aus  Elysium  !  " 

As  I  paced  about  thus  excitedly,  Adelaide's  maid  came 
in  with  a  note.  Mr.  Arkwright  had  received  it  from 
Herr  von  Francius,  who  had  desired  him  to  give  it  to 
Lady  Le  Marchant. 

Adelaide  opened  it,  and  I  went  on  with  my  chant.  I 
know  now  how  dreadful  it  must  have  sounded  to  her. 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

'  Freude  trinken  alle  Wesen 
An  den  Briisten  der  Natur — " 


295 


"  May  ! "  said  Adelaide,  faintly. 

I  turned  in  my  walk  and  looked  at  her.  White  as 
death.  She  held  the  paper  towards  me  with  a  steady 
hand,  and  I,  the  song  of  joy  slain  upon  my  lips,  took  it. 
It  was  a  brief  note  from  Von  Francius. 

"  I  let  you  know,  my  lady,  first  of  all  that  I  have  ac- 
cepted the  post  of  Musik  Direktor  in  .  It  will  be 

made  known  to-morrow." 

I  held  the  paper  and  looked  at  her.  Now  I  knew  the 
reason  of  her  pallid  looks.  I  had  indeed  been  blind.  I 
might  have  guessed  better. 

"  Have  you  read  it  ?  "  she  asked,  and  she  stretched  her 
arms  above  her  head,  as  if  panting  for  breath. 

"Adelaide!"  I  whispered,  going  up  to  her;  "Adelaide 
— oh ! " 

She  fell  upon  my  neck.  She  did  not  speak,  and  I, 
speechless,  held  her  to  my  breast. 

"You  love  him,  Adelaide?"  I  said,  at  last. 

"  With  my  whole  soul ! "  she  answered,  in  a  low,  veiy 
low,  but  vehement  voice.  "With  my  whole  soul." 

"And  you  have  owned  it  to  him  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Tell  me,"  said  I,  "how  it  was." 

"  I  think  I  have  loved  him  since  almost  the  first  time  I 
saw  him — he  made  quite  a  different  impression  upon  me 
than  other  men  do — quite.  I  hardly  knew  myself.  He 
mastered  me.  No  other  man  ever  did — except—"  she 
shuddered  a  little,  "and  that  only  because  I  tied  myself 
hand  and  foot.  But  I  liked  the  mastery.  It  was  deli- 
cious :  it  was  rest  and  peace.  It  went  on  for  long.  We 
knew — each  knew  quite  well  that  we  loved,  but  he  never 
spoke  of  it.  He  saw  how  it  was  with  me  and  he  helped 
me — oh,  why  is  he  so  good !  He  never  tried  to  trap  me 
into  any  acknowledgment.  He  never  made  any  use  of 
the  power^  he  knew  he  had  except  to  keep  me  right.  But 
at  the  Maskenball — I  do  not  know  how  it  was — we  were 
alone  in  all  the  crowd — there  was  something  said — a  look. 
It  was  all  over.  But  he  was  true  to  the  last.  He  did  not 


295  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

say,  'Throw  everything  up  and  come  to  me.'  He  said, 
'Give  me  the  only  joy  that  we  may  have.  Tell  me  you 
love  me.'  And  I  told  him.  I  said,  '  I  love  you  with  my 
life  and  my  soul,  and  everything  I  have,  forever  and  ever.' 
And  that  is  true.  He  said,  'Thank  you,  milady.  I  ac- 
cept the  condition  of  my  knighthood,'  and  kissed  my 
hand.  There  was  some  one  following  us.  It  was  Sir 
Peter.  He  heard  all,  and  he  has  punished  me  for  it  since. 
He  will  punish  me  again." 
A  pause. 

"That  is  all  that  has  been  said.     He  does  not  know 
that  Sir  Peter  knows,  for  he  has  never  alluded  to  it  since. 
He  has  spared  me.     I  say  he  is  a  noble  man." 
She  raised  herself,  and  looked  at  me. 
Dear  sister !     With  your  love  and  your  pride,  your  sins 
and  your  folly,  inexpressibly  dear  to  me  !    I  pressed  a  kiss 
upon  her  lips. 

"Von  Francius  is  good,  Adelaide;  he  is  good." 
"Von  Francius  would  have  told  me  this  himself,  but 
he  has  been  afraid  for  me;  some  time  ago  he  said  to  me 
that  he  had  the  offer  of  a  post  at  a  distance.  That  was 
asking  my  advice.  I  found  out  what  it  was,  and  said, 
'Take  it.'  He  has  done  so." 

"Then  you  have  decided?"  I  stammered. 
"  To  part.  He  has  strength.  So  have  I.  It  was  my 
own  fault.  May — I  could  bear  it  if  it  were  for  myself 
alone.  I  have  had  my  eyes  opened  now.  I  see  that 
when  people  do  wrong  they  drag  others  into  it — they 
punish  those  they  love — it  is  part  of  their  own  punish- 
ment." 

A  pause.  Facts,  I  felt,  were  pitiless ;  but  the  glow  of 
friendship  for  Von  Francius  was  like  a  strong  fire.  In  the 
midst  of  the  keenest  pain  one  finds  a  true  man,  and  the 
discovery  is  like  a  sudden  soothing  of  sharp  anguish,  or 
like  the  finding  a  strong  comrade  in  a  battle. 

Adelaide  had  been  very  self- restrained  and  quiet  all 
this  time,  but  now  suddenly  broke  out  into  low,  quick, 
half-sobbed  out  words : 

"Oh,  I  love  him,  I  love  him'  It  is  dreadful!  How 
shall  I  go  through  with  it  ?  " 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


297 


Ay,  there  was  the  rub !  Not  one  short  sharp  pang, 
and  over — all  fire  quenched  in  cool  mists  of  death  and 
unconsciousness,  but  long  years  to  come  of  daily,  hourly, 
paying  the  price;  incessant  compunction,  active  punish- 
ment. A  prospect  for  a  martyr  to  shrink  from,  and  for  a 
woman  who  has  made  a  mistake  to — live  through. 

We  needed  not  further  words.  The  secret  was  told, 
and  the  worst  known.  We  parted.  Von  Francius  was 
from  this  moment  a  sacred  being  to  me. 

But  from  this  time  he  scarcely  came  near  the  house — 
not  even  to  give  me  my  lessons.  I  went  to  my  lodging 
and  had  them  there.  Adelaide  said  nothing,  asked  not 
a  question  concerning  him,  nor  mentioned  his  name,  and 
the  silence  on  his  side  was  almost  as  profound  as  that  on 
hers.  It  seemed  as  if  they  feared  that  should  they  meet, 
speak,  look  each  other  in  the  eyes,  all  resolution  would 
be  swept  away,  and  the  end  hurry  resistless  on. 


CHAPTER  V. 

"And  behold,  though  the  way  was  light  and  the  sun  did  shine, 
yet  my  heart  was  ill  at  ease,  for  a  sinister  blot  did  now  and  again 
fleck  the  sun,  and  a  muttered  sound  perturbed  the  air.  And  he  re- 
peated oft  '  One  hath  told  me — thus — or  thus.'  " 

KARL  LINDERS,  our  old  acquaintance,  was  now 
our  fast  friend.  Many  changes  had  taken  place  in 
the  personnel  of  our  fellow-workmen  in  the  Kapelle,  but 
Eugen,  Karl  and  I  remained  stationary  in  the  same 
places  and  holding  the  same  rank  as  on  the  day  we  had 
first  met.  He,  Karl,  had  been  from  the  first  more  con- 
genial to  me  than  any  other  of  my  fellows  (Eugen  ex- 
cepted  of  course).  Why,  I  could  never  exactly  tell. 
There  was  about  him  a  contagious  cheerfulness,  good- 
humor  and  honesty.  He  was  a  sinner,  but  no  rascal : 
a  wild  fellow — Taugenichts — wilder  Gesell,  as  our  phra- 
seology had  it,  but  the  furthest  thing  possible  from  a 
knave. 

Since  his  visits  to  us  and  his  earnest  efforts  to  curry 
favor  with  Sigmund  by  means  of  nondescript  wool  beasts, 
domestic  or  of  prey,  he  had  grown  much  nearer  to  us. 
He  was  the  only  intimate  we  had — the  only  person  who 
came  in  and  out  of  our  quarters  at  any  time ;  the  only 
man  who  sat  and  smoked  with  us  in  an  evening.  At  the 
time  when  Karl  put  in  his  first  appearance  in  these  pages 
he  was  a  young  man  not  only  not  particular,  but  utterly 
reckless  as  to  the  society  he  frequented.  Any  one,  he 
was  wont  to  say,  was  good  enough  to  talk  with,  or  to 
listen  while  talked  to.  Karl's  conversation  could  not  be 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


299 


called  either  affected  or  pedantic :  his  taste  was  catholic, 
and  comprised  within  wide  bounds;  he  considered  all 
subjects  that  were  amusing  appropriate  matter  of  discus- 
sion, and  to  him  most  subjects  were — or  were  susceptible 
of  being  made — amusing. 

Latterly,  however,  it  would  seem  that  a  process  of 
growth  had  been  going  on  in  him.      Three  years  had 
worked  a  difference.      In  some  respects  he  was,  thank . 
heaven!    still  the  old  Karl — the  old  careless,  reckless, 
aimless  fellow;  but  in  others  he  was  metamorphosed. 

Karl  Linders,  a  handsome  fellow  himself  and  a  slave 
to  beauty,  as  he  was  careful  to  inform  us — susceptible  in 
the  highest  degree  to  real  loveliness — so  he  often  told  us 
— and  in  love  on  an  average,  desperately  and  forever, 
once  a  week,  had  at  last  fallen  really  and  actually  in  love. 

For  a  long  time  we  did  not  guess  it — or  rather,  accept- 
ing his  being  in  love  as  a  chronic  state  of  his  being — one 
of  the  "  inseparable  accidents,"  which  may  almost  be 
called  qualities,  we  wondered  what  lay  at  the  bottom  of 
his  sudden  intense  sobriety  of  demeanor  and  propriety  of 
conduct,  and  looked  for  some  cause  deeper  than  love, 
which  did  not  usually  have  that  effect  upon  him :  we 
thought  it  might  be  debt.  We  studied  the  behavior 
itself:  we  remarked  that  for  upwards  of  ten  days  he  had 
never  lauded  the  charms  of  any  young  woman  connected 
with  the  choral  or  terpsichorean  staff  of  the  opera,  and 
wondered. 

We  saw  that  he  had  had  his  hair  very  much  cut,  and 
we  told  him  frankly  that  we  did  not  think  it  improved 
him.  To  our  great  surprise  he  told  us  that  we  knew 
nothing  about  it,  and  requested  us  to  mind  our  own  busi- 
ness, adding  testily,  after  a  pause,  that  he  did  not  see  why 
on  earth  a  set  of  men  like  us  should  make  ourselves  con- 
spicuous by  the  fashion  of  our  hair,  as  if  we  were  Ab- 
saloms  or  Samsons. 

"  Samson  had  a  Delilah,  mein  Lieber"  said  I,  eyeing 
him.  "  She  shore  his  locks  for  him.  Tell  us  frankly  who 
has  acted  the  part  by  you." 

"  Bah !  Can  a  fellow  have  no  sense  in  his  own  head, 
to  find  such  things  out  ?  Go  and  do  likewise,  and  I  can 
tell  you  you'll  be  improved." 


300  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

But  we  agreed  when  he  was  gone  that  the  loose  locks, 
drooping  over  the  laughing  glance,  suited  him  better  than 
that  neatly-cropped  propriety. 

Days  passed,  and  Karl  was  still  not  his  old  self.  It 
became  matter  of  public  remark  that  his  easy,  short 
jacket,  a  mongrel  kind  of  garment  to  which  he  was 
deeply  attached,  was  discarded,  not  merely  for  grand 
occasions,  but  even  upon  the  ordinary  Saturday  night 
concert,  yea,  even  for  walking  out  at  mid-day,  and  a 
superior  frock-coat  substituted  for  it — a  frock-coat  in 
which,  we  told  him,  he  looked  quite  edel.  At  which  he 
pished  and  pshawed,  but  surreptitiously  adjusted  his  col- 
lar before  the  looking-glass  which  the  propriety  and  sat- 
isfactoriness  of  our  behavior  had  induced  Frau  Schmidt 
to  add  to  our  responsibilities,  pulled  his  cuffs  down,  and 
remarked  en  passant  that  "  the  'cello  was  a  horribly  un 
graceful  instrument." 

"Not  as  you  use  it,"  said  we  both,  politely,  and  allowed 
him  to  lead  the  way  to  the  concert-room. 

A  few  evenings  later  he  strolled  into  our  room,  lit  a 
cigar,  and  sighed  deeply. 

"  What  ails  thee,  then,  Karl  ?  "  I  asked. 

"I've  something  on  my  mind,"  he  replied,  uneasily. 

"That  we  know,"  put  in  Eugen ;  "and  a  pretty  big 
lump  it  must  be,  too.  Out  with  it,  man !  Has  she  ac- 
cepted the  bottle-nosed  oboist  after  all  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  Have  you  got  into  debt  ?  How  much  ?  I  dare  say 
we  can  manage  it  between  us." 

"  No — oh  no !     I  am  five  thalers  to  the  good." 

Our  countenances  grew  more  serious.  Not  debt  ? 
Then  what  was  it,  what  could  it  be  ? 

"  I  hope  nothing  has  happened  to  Gretchen,"  sug- 
gested Eugen,  for  Gretchen,  his  sister,  was  the  one 
permanently  strong  love  of  Karl's  heart. 

"  Oh  no!  Das  Madel  is  very  well,  and  getting  on  in 
her  classes." 

"Then  what  is  it?" 

"  I'm — engaged — to  be  married." 

I  grieve  to  say  that  Eugen  and  I,  after  staring  at  him 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  3ot 

for  some  few  minutes,  until  we  had  taken  in  the  announce- 
ment, both  burst  into  the  most  immoderate  laughter — till 
the  tears  ran  down  our  cheeks,  and  our  sides  ached. 

Karl  sat  quite  still,  unresponsive,  puffing  away  at  his 
cigar;  and  when  we  had  finished,  or  rather  were  becom- 
ing a  little  more  moderate  in  the  expression  of  our  amuse- 
ment, he  knocked  the  ash  away  from  his  weed,  and  re- 
marked : 

"  That's  blind  jealousy.  You  both  know  that  there  -isn't 
a  Mddchen  in  the  place  who  would  look  at  you,  so  you 
try  to  laugh  at  people  who  are  better  off  than  yourselves." 

This  was  so  stinging  (from  the  tone  more  than  the 
words)  as  coming  from  the  most  sweet-tempered  fellow 
I  ever  knew,  that  we  stopped — Eugen  apologized,  and 
we  asked  who  the  lady  was. 

"  I  shouldn't  suppose  you  cared  to  know,"  said  he, 
rather  sulkily.  "And  it's  all  very  fine  to  laugh,  but  let 
me  see  the  man  who  even  smiles  at  her — he  shall  learn 
who  I  am." 

\Ye  assured  him,  with  the  strongest  expressions  that  we 
could  call  to  our  aid,  that  it  was  the  very  idea  of  his  being 
engaged  that  made  us  laugh — not  any  disrespect,  and 
pegged  his  pardon  again.  By  degrees  he  relented.  We 
still  urgently  demanded  the  name  of  the  lady. 

"Ah  Verlobtc  empfehlen  sick  Karl  Linders  and — who 
else  ?  "  asked  Eugen. 

"  Als  Verlobte  empfehlen  sich 1  Karl  Linders  and  Clara 
Steinmann,"  said  Karl,  with  much  dignity. 

"Clara  Steinmann,"  we  repeated  in  tones  of  respectful 
gravity,  "  I  never  heard  of  her." 

"No,  she  keeps  herself  rather  reserved  and  select," 
said  Karl,  impressively.  "She  lives  with  her  aunt  in  the 
Alleestrasse,  at  number  39." 

"  Number  thirty-nine  ! "  we  both  ejaculated. 

'•Exactly  so!  What  have  you  to  say  against  it?"  de- 
manded Herr  Linders,  glaring  round  upon  us  with  an 
awful  majesty. 

1  The  German  custom  on  an  engagement  taking  place  is  to  announce  it  with 
the  above  words,  signifying  "  M.  and  N.  announce  (recommend)  themselves  as 
betrothed."  This  appears  in  the  newspaper — as  a  marriage  with  us. 


302  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

"Nothing — oh,  less  than  nothing.  But  I  know  now 
where  you  mean.  It  is  a  boarding-house,  nicht  wahr?" 

He  nodded  sedately. 

"I  have  seen  the  young  lady,"  said  I,  carefully  observ- 
ing all  due  respect.  "  Eugen,  you  must  have  seen  her 
too.  Miss  Wedderburn  used  to  come  with  her  to  the 
Instrumental  Concerts  before  she  began  to  sing." 

"  Right ! "  said  Karl,  graciously.  "  She  did.  Clara  liked 
Miss  Wedderburn  very  much." 

"Indeed!"  said  we,  respectfully,  and  fully  recognizing 
that  this  was  quite  a  different  affair  from  any  of  the  pre- 
vious flirtations  with  chorus-singers  and  ballet-girls  which 
had  taken  up  so  much  of  his  attention. 

"  I  don't  know  her,"  said  I,  "  I  have  not  that  pleasure, 
but  I  am  sure  you  are  to  be  congratulated,  old  fellow — so 
I  do  congratulate  you  very  heartily." 

"Thank  you,"  said  he. 

"  I  can't  congratulate  you,  Karl,  as  I  don't  know  the 
lady,"  said  Eugen,  "  but  I  do  congratulate  her"  laying  his 
hand  upon  Karl's  shoulder ;  "  I  hope  she  knows  the  kind 
of  man  she  has  won,  and  is  worthy  of  him." 

A  smile  of  the  Miss  Squeers  description — "Tilda,  I 
pities  your  ignorance  and  despises  you," — crossed  Karl's 
lips  as  he  said: 

"  Thank  you.  No  one  else  knows.  It  only  took  place 
— decidedly,  you  know,  to-night.  I  said  I  should  tell  two 
friends  of  mine — she  said  she  had  no  objection.  I  should 
not  have  liked  to  keep  it  from  you  two.  I  wish,"  said 
Karl,  whose  eyes  had  been  roving  in  a  seeking  manner 
round  the  room,  and  who  now  brought  his  words  out 
with  a  run  ;  "  I  wish  Sigmund  had  been  here  too.  I  wish 
she  could  have  seen  him.  She  loves  children :  she  has 
been  very  good  to  Gretchen." 

Eugen's  hand  dropped  from  our  friend's  shoulder.  He 
walked  to  the  window  without  speaking,  and  looked  out 
into  the  darkness — as  he  was  then  in  more  senses  than 
one  often  wont  to  do — nor  did  he  break  the  silence  nor 
look  at  us  again  until  some  time  after  Karl  and  I  had  re- 
sumed the  conversation. 

So  did  the  quaint  fellow  announce  his  engagement  to 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


3°3 


us.  It  was  quite  a  romantic  little  history,  for  it  turned  out 
that  he  had  loved  the  girl  for  full  two  years,  but  for  a  long 
time  had  not  been  able  even  to  make  her  acquaintance, 
and  when  that  was  accomplished,  had  hardly  dared  to 
speak  of  his  love  for  her ;  for  though  she  was  sprung  from 
much  the  same  class  as  himself,  she  was  in  much  better 
circumstances,  and  accustomed  to  a  life  of  ease  and  plenty, 
even  if  she  were  little  better  in  reality  than  a  kind  of  work- 
ing-housekeeper. A  second  suitor  for  her  hand  had,  how- 
ever, roused  Karl  into  boldness  and  activity :  he  declared 
himself,  and  was  accepted.  Despite  the  opposition  of 
Frau  Steinmann,  who  thought  the  match  in  every  way  be- 
neath her  niece  (why,  I  never  could  tell),  the  lovers  man- 
aged to  carry  their  purpose  so  far  as  the  betrothal  or 
Verlobung  went :  marriage  was  a  question  strictly  of  the 
future.  It  was  during  the  last  weeks  of  suspense  and  un- 
certainty that  Karl  had  been  unable  to  carry  things  off  in 
quite  his  usual  light-hearted  manner :  it  was  after  finally 
conquering  that  he  came  to  make  us  partners  in  his 
satisfaction. 

In  time  we  had  the  honor  of  an  introduction  to  Frau- 
lein  Steinmann,  and  our  amazement  and  amusement  were 
equally  great.  Karl  was  a  tall,  handsome,  well-knit  fel- 
low, with  an  exceptionally  graceful  figure  and  what  I  call 
a  typical  German  face  (typical,  I  mean,  in  one  line  of  de- 
velopment)—  open,  frank,  handsome,  with  the  broad 
traits,  smiling  lips,  clear  and  direct  guileless  eyes,  waving 
hair  and  aptitude  for  geniality  which  are  the  chief  charac- 
teristics of  that  type — not  the  highest,  perhaps,  but  a  good 
one,  nevertheless — honest,  loyal,  brave — a  kind  which 
makes  good  fathers  and  good  soldiers — how  many  a 
hundred  are  mourned  since  1870-71! 

He  had  fallen  in  love  with  a  little  stout  dumpy  Mdd- 
chen,  honest  and  open  as  himself,  but  stupid  in  all  outside 
domestic  matters.  She  was  evidently  desperately  in  love 
with  him,  and  could  understand  a  good  waltz  or  a  senti- 
mental song,  so  that  his  musical  talents  were  not  altogether 
thrown  away.  I  liked  her  better  after  a  time.  There  was 
something  touching  in  the  way  in  which  she  said  to  me 
once: 


304  THE  FIRST  VIOLI\'. 

"  He  might  have  done  so  much  better.  I  am  such  an 
ugly,  stupid  thing,  but  when  he  said  did  I  love  him  or 
could  I  love  him,  or  something  like  that,  urn  Gotteswillen, 
Herr  Helfen,  what  could  I  say  ?  " 

"  I  am  sure  you  did  the  best  possible  thing  both  for 
him  and  for  you,"  I  was  able  to  say,  with  emphasis  and 
conviction. 

Karl  had  now  become  a  completely  reformed  and  do- 
mesticated member  of  society :  now  he  wore  the  frock- 
coat  several  times  a  week,  and  confided  to  me  that  he 
thought  he  must  have  a  new  one  soon.  Now  too  did 
other  strange  results  appear  of  his  engagement  to  Fraulein 
Clara  (he  got  sentimental  and  called  her  Clanhen  some- 
times). He  had  now  the  entree  of  Frau  Steinmann'? 
house  and  there  met  feminine  society  several  degrees 
above  that  to  which  he  had  been  accustomed.  He  was 
obliged  to  wear  a  permanently  polite  and  polished  manner 
(which,  let  me  hasten  to  say,  was  not  the  least  trouble  to 
him).  No  charring  of  these  young  ladies — no  offering  to 
take  them  to  places  of  amusement  of  any  but  the  very 
sternest  and  severest  respectability. 

He  took  Fraulein  Clara  out  for  walks.  They  jogged 
along  arm-in-arm,  Karl  radiant,  Clara  no  less  so,  and 
sometimes  they  were  accompanied  by  another  inmate  of 
Frau  Steinmann's  house — a  contrast  to  them  both.  She 
lived  en  familk  with  her  hostess,  not  having  an  income 
large  enough  to  admit  of  indulging  in  quite  separate 
quarters,  and  her  name  was  Anna  Sartorius. 

It  was  very  shortly  after  his  engagement  that  Karl  began 
to  talk  to  me  about  Anna  Sartorius.  She  was  a  clever 
young  woman,  it  seemed — or  as  he  called  her,  a  gescheidtes 
Madchcn.  She  could  talk  most  wonderfully.  She  had 
traveled — she  had  been  in  England  and  France,  and  seen 
the  world,  said  Karl.  They  all  passed  very  delightful 
evenings  together  sometimes,  diversified  with  music  and 
s^.ng  and  the  racy  jest — at  which  times  Frau  Steinmann 
became  quite  another  person,  and  he,  Karl,  felt  himself  in 
heaven.  ^ 

The  substance  of  all  this  was  told  me  by  him  one  day 
at  a  Probe,  where  Eugen  had  been  conspicuous  by  his 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


3<>5 


absence.  Perhaps  the  circumstance  reminded  Karl  of 
some  previous  conversation,  for  he  said : 

"She  must  have  seen  Courvoisier  before  somewhere. 
She  asks  a  good  many  questions  about  him,  and  when  I 
said  I  knew  him  she  laughed." 

"  Look  here,  Karl !  don't  go  talking  to  outsiders  about 
Eugen — or  any  of  us.  His  affairs  are  no  business  of 
Fraulein  Sartorius,  or  any  other  busybody." 

"/  talk  about  him  !  What  do  you  mean  ?  Upon  my 
word  I  don't  know  how  the  conversation  took  that  turn ; 
but  I  am  sure  she  knows  something  about  him.  She  said 
'  Eugen  Courvoisier  indeed ! '  and  laughed  in  a  very  pecul- 
iar way." 

"  She  is  a  fool.  So  are  you  if  you  let  her  talk  to  you 
about  him." 

"  She  is  no  fool,  and  I  want  to  talk  to  no  one  but  my 
own  Mddchen"  said  he,  easily;  "but  when  a  woman  is 
talking  one  can't  stop  one's  ears." 

Time  passed.  The  concert  with  the  Choral  Symphony 
followed.  Karl  had  had  the  happiness  of  presenting 
tickets  to  Fraulein  Clara  and  her  aunt,  and  of  seeing 
them,  in  company  with  Miss  Sartorius,  enjoying  looking 
at  the  dresses,  and  saying  how  loud  the  music  was.  His 
visits  to  Frau  Steinmann  continued. 

"  Friedel,"  he  remarked  abruptly  one  day  to  me,  as  we 
paced  down  the  Casernenstrasse,  "  I  wonder  who  Cour- 
voisier is ! " 

"You  have  managed  to  exist  very  comfortably  for  three 
or  four  years  without  knowing." 

"  There  is  something  behind  all  his  secrecy  about  him- 
self." 

"Fraulein  Sartorius  says  so,  I  suppose,"  I  remarked, 
dryly. 

"  N — no ;  she  never  said  so ;  but  I  think  she  knows  it 
is  so." 

"And  what  if  it  be  so?" 

"Oh,  nothing!  But  I  wonder  what  can  have  driven 
him  here." 

~"  Driven  him  here  ?     His  own  choice,  of  course." 

Karl  laughed. 


306 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


"  Nee,  nee,  Friedel,  not  quite." 

"  I  should  advise  you  to  let  him  and  his  affairs  alone, 
unless  you  want  a  row  with  him.  I  would  no  more  think 
of  asking  him  than  of  cutting  off  my  right  hand." 

"Asking  him — lieber Himmel /  no;  but  one  may  won- 
der—  It  was  a  very  queer  thing  his  sending  poor  Sig- 
mund  off  in  that  style.  I  wonder  where  he  is." 

"1  don't  know." 

"  Did  he  never  tell  you  ?  " 

"No." 

"Queer!"  said  Karl,  reflectively.  "I  think  there  is 
something  odd  behind  it  all." 

"  Now  listen,  Karl.  Do  you  want  to  have  a  row  with 
Eugen  ?  Are  you  anxious  for  him  never  to  speak  to  you 
again  ?" 

"Herrgott,  no!" 

"Then  take  my  advice,  and  just  keep  your  mouth  shut. 
Don't  listen  to  tales,  and  don't  repeat  them." 

"  But  my  dear  fellow,  when  there  is  a  mystery  about  a 
man — " 

"  Mystery !  Nonsense !  What  mystery  is  there  in  a 
man's  choosing  to  have  private  affairs  ?  We  didn't  be- 
have in  this  idiotic  manner  when  you  were  going  on  like 
a  lunatic  about  Fraulein  Clara.  We  simply  assumed  that 
as  you  didn't  speak  you  had  affairs  which  you  chose  to 
keep  to  yourself.  Just  apply  the  rule,  or  it  may  be  worse 
for  you." 

" For  all  that,  there  is  something  queer"  he  said,  as  we 
turned  into  the  Restauration  for  dinner. 

Yet  again,  some  days  later,  just  before  the  last  concert 
came  off,  Karl,  talking  to  me,  said,  in  a  tone  and  with  a 
look  as  if  the  idea  troubled  and  haunted  him : 

"  I  say,  Friedel,  do  you  think  Courvoisier's  being  here 
is  all  square  ?  " 

"All  square?"  I  repeated,  scornfully. 

He  nodded. 

"Yes.  Of  course  all  has  been  right  since  he  came 
here;  but  don't  you  think  there  may  be  something  shady 
in  the  background  ?  " 

"What  do  you  mean  by  'shady'?"  I  asked,  more  an- 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


3°7 


noyed  than  I  cared  to  confess  at  his  repeated  returning 
to  the  subject. 

"Well,  you  know,  there  must  be  a  reason  for  his  being 
here — " 

I  burst  into  a  fit  of  laughter,  which  was  not  so  mirthful 
as  it  might  seem. 

"  I  should  rather  think  there  must.  Isn't  there  a  reason 
for  every  one  being  somewhere  ?  Why  am  I  here  ?  Why 
are  you  here  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  but  this  is  quite  a  different  thing.  We  are  all 
agreed  that  whatever  he  may  be  now,  he  has  not  always 
been  one  of  us,  and  I  like  things  to  be  clear  about  people." 

"  It  is  a  most  extraordinary  thing  that  you  should  only 
have  felt  the  anxiety  lately,"  said  I,  witheringly,  and  then, 
after  a  moment's  reflection,  I  said : 

"  Look  here,  Karl ;  no  one  could  be  more  unwilling 
than  I  to  pick  a  quarrel  with  you,  but  quarrel  we  must  if 
this  talking  of  Eugen  behind  his  back  goes  on.  It  is 
nothing  to  either  of  us  what  his  past  has  been.  /  want 
no  references.  If  you  want  to  gossip  about  him  or  any 
one  else,  go  to  the  old  women  who  are  the  natural  ex- 
changers of  that  commodity.  Only  if  you  mention  it 
again  to  me  it  comes  to  a  quarrel — verstehst  du  ?  " 

"  I  meant  no  harm,  and  I  can  see  no  harm  in  it,"  said  he. 

"  Very  well ;  but  I  do.  I  hate  it.  So  shake  hands,  and 
let  there  be  an  end  of  it.  I  wish  now  that  I  had  spoken 
out  at  first.  There's  a  dirtiness,  to  my  mind,  in  the  idea 
of  speculating  about  a  person  with  whom  you  are  inti- 
mate, in  a  way  that  you  wouldn't  like  him  to  hear." 

"Well,  if  you  will  have  it  so,"  said  he;  but  there  was 
not  the  usual  look  of  open  satisfaction  upon  his  face.  He 
did  not  mention  the  subject  to  me  again,  but  I  caught 
him  looking  now  and  then  earnestly  at  Eugen,  as  if  he 
wished  to  ask  him  something.  Then  I  knew  that  in  my 
anxiety  to  avoid  gossiping  about  the  friend  whose  secrets 
were  sacred  to  me,  I  had  made  a  mistake.  I  ought  to 
have  made  Karl  tell  me  whether  he  had  heard  anything 
specific  about  him  or  against  him,  and  so  judge  the  ex- 
tent of  the  mischief  done. 

It  needed  but  little  thought  on  my  part  to  refer  Karl's 


3o8 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


suspicions  and  vague  rumors  to  the  agency  of  Anna  Sar- 
torius.  Lately  I  had  begun  to  observe  this  young  lady 
more  closely.  She  was  a  tall,  dark,  plain  girl,  with  large, 
defiant-looking  eyes,  and  a  bitter  mouth ;  when  she  smiled 
there  was  nothing  genial  in  the  smile.  When  she  spoke, 
her  voice  had  a  certain  harsh  flavor ;  her  laugh  was  hard 
and  mocking — as  if  she  laughed  at,  not  with  people. 
There  was  something  rather  striking  in  her  appearance, 
but  little  pleasing.  She  looked  at  odds  with  the  world, 
or  with  her  lot  in  it,  or  with  her  present  circumstances,  or 
something.  I  was  satisfied  that  she  knew  something  of 
Eugen,  though,  when  I  once  pointed  her  out  to  him  and 
asked  if  he  knew  her,  he  looked  at  her,  and  after  a  mo- 
ment's look,  as  if  he  remembered,  shook  his  head,  saying : 

"There  is  something  a  little  familiar  to  me  in  her  face, 
but  I  am  sure  that  I  have  never  seen  her — most  assuredly 
never  spoken  to  her." 

Yet  I  had  often  seen  her  look  at  him  long  and  earnestly, 
usually  with  a  certain  peculiar  smile,  and  with  her  head  a 
little  to  one  side  as  if  she  examined  some  curiosity  or  lu- 
sus  natura.  I  was  too  little  curious  myself  to  know  Eu- 
gen's  past  to  speculate  much  about  it;  but  I  was  quite 
sure  that  there  was  some  link  between  him  and  that  dark, 
bitter,  sarcastic-looking  girl,  Anna  Sartorius. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

"Didst  thou,  or  didst  them  not?    Just  tell  me,  friend! 
Not  that  my  conscience  may  be  satisfied, 
/  never  for  a  moment  doubted  thee — 
But  that  I  may  have  wherewithal  in  hand 
To  turn  against  them  when  they  point  at  thee : 
A  whip  to  flog  them  with — a  rock  to  crush — 
Thy  word — thy  simple  downright  'No,  I  did  not.' 


Why !     How ! 

What's  this  ?     He  does  not,  will  not  speak.     Oh  God ! 
Nay,  raise  thy  head  and  look  me  in  the  eyes ! 
Canst  not  ?     What  is  this  thing  ?  " 

IT  was  the  last  concert  of  the  season,  and  the  end  of 
April,  when  evenings  were  growing  pleasantly  long  and 
the  air  balmy.  Those  last  concerts,  and  the  last  nights  of 
the  opera,  which  closed  at  the  end  of  April,  until  Septem- 
ber, were  always  crowded.  That  night  I  remember  we 
had  Liszt's  Prometheus,  and  a  great  violinist  had  been  an- 
nounced as  coming  to  enrapture  the  audience  with  the 
performance  of  a  Concerto  of  Beethoven's. 

The  concert  was  for  the  benefit  of  Von  Francius,  and 
was  probably  the  last  one  at  which  he  would  conduct  us. 
He  was  leaving  to  assume  the  post  of  Koniglicher  Musik 

Direktor  at  .  Now  that  the  time  came  there  was 

not  a  man  amongst  us  who  was  not  heartily  sorry  to  think 
of  the  parting. 

Miss  Wedderburn  was  one  of  the  soloists  that  evening, 
and  her  sister  and  Mr.  Arkwright  were  both  there. 


3,0  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN". 

Karl  Linders  came  on  late.  I  saw  that  just  before  he 
appeared  by  the  orchestra  entrance,  his  beloved,  her  aunt, 
and  Fraulein  Sartorius  had  taken  their  places  in  the  par- 
quet. Karl  looked  sullen  and  discontented,  and  utterly 
unlike  himself.  Anna  Sartorius  was  half  smiling.  Lady 
Le  Marchant,  I  noticed,  passingly,  looked  the  shadow  of 
her  former  self. 

Then  Von  Francius  came  on  ;  he  too  looked  disturbed, 
for  him  very  much  so,  and  glanced  round  the  orchestra 
and  the  room;  and  then  coming  up  to  Eugen,  drew  him 
a  little  aside,  and  seemed  to  put  a  question  to  him.  The 
discussion,  though  carried  on  in  low  tones,  was  animated, 
and  lasted  some  time.  Von  Francius  appeared  greatly 
to  urge  Courvoisier  to  something — the  latter  to  resist. 
At  last  some  understanding  appeared  to  be  come  to. 
Von  Francius  returned  to  his  estrade,  Eugen  to  his  seat, 
and  the  concert  began. 

The  third  piece  on  the  list  was  the  Violin  Concerto, 
and  when  its  turn  came  all  eyes  turned  in  all  directions  in 

search  of ,  the  celebrated,  who  was  to  perform  it. 

Von  Francius  advanced  and  made  a  short  enough  an- 
nouncement. 

"  Meine  Hcrrschaften,  I  am  sorry  to  say  that  I  have 

received  a  telegram  from  Herr ,  saying  that  sudden 

illness  prevents  his  playing  to-night.  I  am  sorry  that  you 
should  be  disappointed  of  hearing  him,  but  I  cannot 
regret  that  you  should  have  an  opportunity  of  listening 
to  one  who  will  be  a  very  effectual  substitute — Herr  Con- 
certmeister  Courvoisier,  your  first  violin." 

He  stepped  back.  Courvoisier  rose.  There  was  a 
dead  silence  in  the  hall.  Eugen  stood  in  the  well-known 
position  of  the  prophet  without  honor,  only  that  he  had 
not  yet  begun  to  speak.  The  rest  of  the  orchestra  and 
Von  Francius  were  waiting  to  begin  Beethoven's  Con- 
certo ;  but  Eugen,  lifting  his  voice,  addressed  them  in  his 
turn  : 

"I  am  sorry  to  say  that  I  dare  not  venture  upon  the 
great  Concerto;  it  is  so  long  since  I  attempted  it.  I 
shall  have  pleasure  in  trying  to  play  a  Chaconne — one  of 
the  compositions  of  Herr  von  Francius." 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  3II 

Von  Francius  started  up  as  if  to  forbid  it.  But  Eugen 
had  touched  the  right  key.  There  was  a  round  of  ap- 
plause, and  then  an  expectant  settling  down  to  listen  on 
the  part  of  the  audience,  who  were,  perhaps,  better 
pleased  to  hear  Von  Francius  the  living  and  much  dis- 
cussed, than  Beethoven  the  dead  and  undisputed. 

It  was  a  minor  measure,  and  one  unknown  to  the  pub- 
lic, for  it  had  not  yet  been  published.  Von  Francius  had 
lent  Eugen  the  score  a  few  days  ago,  and  he  had  once  or 
twice  said  to  me  that  it  was  full  not  merely  of  talent;  it 
was  replete  with  the  fire  of  genius. 

And  so,  indeed,  he  proved  to  us  that  night.  Never, 
before  or  since,  from  professional  or  private  virtuoso,  have 
I  heard  such .  playing  as  that.  The  work  was  in  itself  a 
fine  one ;  original,  strong,  terse  and  racy,  like  him  who 
had  composed  it.  It  was  sad,  very  sad,  but  there  was  a 
magnificent  elevation  running  all  through  it  which  raised 
it  far  above  a  mere  complaint,  gave  a  depth  to  its  tragedy 
while  it  pointed  at  hope.  And  this,  interpreted  by  Eu- 
gen, whose  mood  and  whose  inner  life  it  seemed  exactly 
to  suit,  was  a  thing  not  to  be  forgotten  in  a  life-time.  To 
me  the  scene  and  the  sounds  come  freshly  as  if  heard 
yesterday.  I  see  the  great  hall  full  of  people,  attentive — 
more  than  attentive — every  moment  more  enthralled.  I 
see  the  pleased  smile  which  had  broken  upon  every  face 
of  his  fellow-musicians  at  this  chance  of  distinction,  grad- 
ually subside  into  admiration  and  profound  appreciation ; 
I  feel  again  the  warm  glow  of  joy  which  filled  my  own 
heart ;  I  meet  again  May's  eyes  and  see  the  light  in  them, 
and  see  Von  Francius  shade  his  face  with  his  hand  to 
conceal  the  intensity  of  the  artist's  delight  he  felt  at  hear- 
ing his  own  creation  so  grandly,  so  passionately  inter- 
preted. 

Then  I  see  how  it  was  all  over,  and  Eugen,  pale  with 
the  depth  of  emotion  with  which  he  had  played  the  pas- 
sionate music,  retired,  and  there  came  a  burst  of  enthusi- 
astic applause — applause  renewed  again  and  again — it 
was  a  veritable  succc s  foil. 

But  he  would  make  no  response  to  the  plaudits.  He 
remained  obstinately  seated,  and  there  was  no  elation,  but 


3I2  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

rather  gloom  upon  his  face.  In  vain  Von  Francius  be- 
sought him  to  come  forward.  He  declined,  and  the  calls 
at  last  ceased.  It  was  the  last  piece  on  the  first  part  of 
the  programme.  The  people  at  last  let  him  alone.  But 
there  could  be  no  doubt  that  he  had  both  roused  a  great 
interest  in  himself  and  stimulated  the  popularity  of  Von 
Francius  in  no  common  degree.  And  at  last  he  had  to 
go  down  the  orchestra  steps  to  receive  a  great  many  con- 
gratulations, and  go  through  several  introductions,  while 
I  sat  still  and  mentally  rubbed  my  hands. 

Meanwhile  Karl  Linders,  with  nearly  all  the  other  in- 
strumentalists, had  disappeared  from  the  orchestra.  I  saw 
him  appear  again  in  the  body  of  the  hall,  amongst  all  the 
people,  who  were  standing  up,  laughing  and  discussing 
and  roving  about  to  talk  to  their  friends.  He  had  a  long 
discussion  with  Fraulein  Clara  and  Anna  Sartorius. 

And  then  I  turned  my  attention  to  Eugen  again,  who, 
looking  grave  and  unelated,  released  himself  as  soon  as 
possible  from  his  group  of  new  acquaintance  and  joined 
me. 

Then  Von  Francius  brought  Miss  Wedderburn  up  the 
steps,  and  left  her  sitting  near  us.  She  turned  to  Eugen 
and  said,  "  Ich  gratuZire"  to  which  he  only  bowed  rather 
sadly.  Her  chair  was  quite  close  to  ours,  and  Von  Fran- 
cius stood  talking  to  her.  Others  were  quickly  coming. 
One  or  two  were  around  and  behind  us. 

Eugen  was  tuning  his  violin,  when  a  touch  on  the  shoul- 
der roused  me.  I  looked  up.  Karl  stood  there,  leaning 
across  me  towards  Eugen.  Something  in  his  face  told  me 
that  // — that  which  had  been  hanging  so  long  over  us — 
was  coming.  His  expression,  too,  attracted  the  attention 
of  several  other  people — of  all  who  were  immediately 
around. 

Those  who  heard  Karl  were  myself,  Von  Francius, 
Miss  Wedderburn,  and  some  two  or  three  others,  who  had 
looked  up  as  he  came,  and  had  paused  to  watch  what  was 
coming. 

"  Eugen,"  said  he,  "  a  foul  lie  has  been  told  about  you." 

"So!" 

"  Of  course  I  don't  believe  a  word  of  it.     I'm  not  such 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN, 


3'3 


a  fool.  But  I  have  been  challenged  to  confront  you  with 
it.  It  only  needs  a  syllable  on  your  side  to  crush  it  in- 
stantly ;  for  I  will  take  your  word  against  all  the  rest  of 
the  world  put  together." 

"  Well  ?  "  said  Eugen,  whose  face  was  white,  and  wnose 
voice  was  low. 

"  A  lady  has  said  to  me  that  you  had  a  brother  who  had 
acted  the  part  of  father  to  you,  and  that  you  rewarded  his 
kindness  by  forging  his  name  for  a  sum  of  money  which 
you  could  have  had  for  the  asking;  for  he  denied  you 
nothing.  It  is  almost  too  ridiculous  to  repeat,  and  I  beg 
your  pardon  for  doing  it ;  but  I  was  obliged.  Will  you 
give  me  a  word  of  denial." 

Silence. 

I  looked  at  Eugen.  We  were  all  looking  at  him. 
Three  things  I  looked  for  as  equally  likely  for  him  to  do ; 
but  he  did  none.  He  did  not  start  up  in  an  indignant 
denial ;  he  did  not  utter  icily  an  icy  word  of  contempt ; 
he  did  not  smile  and  ask  Karl  if  he  were  out  of  his  senses. 
He  dropped  his  eyes,  and  maintained  a  deadly  silence. 

Karl  was  looking  at  him,  and  his  candid  face  changed. 
Doubt,  fear,  dismay  succeeded  one  another  upon  it. 
Then,  in  a  lower  and  changed  voice,  as  if  first  admitting 
the  idea  that  caution  might  be  necessary : 

"  Urn  Gotteswillen,  Eugen  !     Speak !  " 

He  looked  up — so  may  look  a  dog  that  is  being  tortur- 
ed— and  my  very  heart  sickened ;  but  he  did  not  speak. 

A  few  moments — not  half  a  minute — did  we  remain 
thus.  It  seemed  a  hundred  years  of  slow  agony.  But 
during  that  time  I  tried  to  comprehend  that  my  friend  of 
the  bright,  clear  eyes,  and  open,  fearless  glance;  the 
very  soul  and  flower  of  honor  :  my  ideal  of  almost  Quix- 
otic chivalrousness,  stood  with  eyes  that  could  not  meet 
ours  that  hung  upon  him ;  face  white,  expression  down- 
cast, accused  of  a  crime  which  came,  if  ever  crime  did, 
under  the  category  "dirty,"  and  not  denying  it ! 

Karl,  the  wretched  beginner  of  the  wretched  scene, 
came  nearer,  took  the  other's  hand,  and,  in  a  coarse 
whisper,  said : 

"  For  God's  sake,  Eugen,  speak  !  Deny  it !  You  can 
deny  it — you  must  deny  it ! " 


3H  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

He  looked  up  at  last,  with  a  tortured  gaze  ;  looked  at 
Karl,  at  me,  at  the  faces  around.  His  lips  quivered 
faintly.  Silence  yet.  And  yet  it  seemed  to  me  that  it 
was  loathing  that  was  most  strongly  depicted  upon  his 
face ;  the  loathing  of  a  man  who  is  obliged  to  intimately 
examine  some  unclean  thing ;  the  loathing  of  one  who  has 
to  drag  a  corpse  about  with  him. 

"Say  it  is  a  lie,  Eugen!"  Karl  conjured  him. 

At  last  came  speech ;  at  last  an  answer ;  slow,  low, 
tremulous,  impossible  to  mistake  or  explain  away. 

"  No ;  I  cannot  say  so." 

His  head — that  proud,  high  head — dropped  again,  as  if 
he  would  fain  avoid  our  eyes. 

Karl  raised  himself.  His  face  too  was  white.  As  il 
stricken  with  some  mortal  blow,  he  walked  away.  Somft 
people  who  had  surrounded  us  turned  aside  and  began  to 
whisper  to  each  other  behind  their  music.  Von  Francius 
looked  impenetrable ;  May  Wedderburn  white.  The 
noise  and  bustle  was  still  going  on  all  around,  louder  than 
before.  The  drama  had  not  taken  three  minutes  to  play 
out. 

Eugen  rested  his  brow  for  a  moment  on  his  hand,  and 
his  face  was  hidden.  He  looked  up,  rising  as  he  did  so, 
and  his  eyes  met  those  of  Miss  Wedderburn.  So  sad,  so 
deep  a  gaze  I  never  saw.  It  was  a  sign  to  me,  a  signifi- 
cant one,  that  he  could  meet  her  eyes. 

Then  he  turned  to  Von  Francius. 

"  Herr  Direktor.  Helfen  will  take  my  place,  nicht  ivahr?  " 

Von  Francius  bowed.  Eugen  left  his  seat,  made  his 
way,  without  a  word,  from  the  orchestra,  and  Von  Fran- 
cius rapped  sharply,  the  preliminary  tumult  subsided;  the 
concert  began. 

I  glanced  once  or  twice  towards  Karl ;  I  received  no 
answering  look.  I  could  not  even  see  his  face;  he  had 
made  himself  as  small  as  possible  behind  his  music. 

The  concert  over — it  seemed  to  me  interminable — I 
was  hastening  away,  anxious  only  to  find  Eugen,  when 
Karl  Linders  stopped  me  in  a  retired  corner,  holding  me 
fast,  said : 

"  Friedel,  I  am  a  damned  fool." 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


315 


"I  am  sorry  not  to  be  able  to  contradict  you." 

"  Listen,"  said  he.  "  You  must  listen,  or  I  shall  follow 
you  and  make  you.  I  made  up  my  mind  not  to  hear 
another  word  against  him,  but  when  I  went  to  die  Clara 
after  the  solo,  I  found  her  and  that  confounded  girl 
whispering  together.  She — Anna  Sartorius — said  it  was 
very  fine  for  such  scamps  to  cover  their  sins  with  music. 
I  asked  her  pretty  stiffly  what  she  meant,  for  she  is  always 
slanging  Eugen,  and  I  thought  she  might  have  let  him 
alone  for  once.  She  said  she  meant  that  he  was  a  black- 
guard— that's  the  word  she  used — ein  lauter  Spitzbube — a 
forger,  and  worse.  I  told  her  I  believed  it  was  a  lie.  I 
did  not  believe  it. 

" '  Ask  him,'  said  she.  I  said  I  would  be — something — 
first.  But  Clara  would  have  nothing  to  say  to  me,  and 
they  both  badgered  me  until  for  mere  quietness  I  agreed 
to  do  as  they  wished." 

He  went  on  in  distress  for  some  time. 

"  Oh,  drop  it !  "  said  I,  impatiently.  "  You  have  done 
the  mischief.  I  don't  want  to  listen  to  your  whining  over 
it.  Go  to  the  Fraulein  Steinmann  and  Sartorius.  They 
will  confer  the  reward  of  merit  upon  you." 

"  Gott  beh'ute !" 

I  shook  myself  loose  from  him  and  took  my  way  home. 
It  was  with  a  feeling  not  far  removed  from  tremulousness 
that  I  entered  the  room.  That  poor  room  formed  a 
temple  which  I  had  no  intention  of  desecrating. 

He  was  sitting  at  the  table  when  I  entered,  and  looked 
at  me  absently.  Then,  with  a  smile  in  which  sweetness 
and  bitterness  were  strangely  mingled,  said  : 

"  So !  you  have  returned  ?  I  will  not  trouble  you 
much  longer.  Give  houseroom  for  to-night.  In  the 
morning  I  shall  be  gone." 

I  went  up  to  him,  pushed  the  writing  materials  which 
lay  before  him  away,  and  took  his  hands,  but  could  not 
speak  for  ever  so  long. 

"  Well,  Friedhelm,"  he  asked,  after  a  pause,  during 
which  the  drawn  and  tense  look  upon  his  face  relaxed 
somewhat,  "  what  have  you  to  say  to  the  man  who  has  let 
you  think  him  honest  for  three  years  ?  " 


3I6  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

"  Whom  I  know,  and  ever  have  known,  to  be  an  hones' 
man." 

He  laughed. 

"  There  are  degrees  and  grades  even  in  honesty.  One 
kind  of  honesty  is  lower  than  others.  I  am  honest  now 
because  my  sin  has  found  me  out,  I  can't  keep  up  appear 
ances  any  longer." 

"  Pooh !  do  you  suppose  that  deceives  me  ?  "  said  I, 
contemptuously.  "  Me,  who  have  known  you  for  three 
years.  That  would  be  a  joke,  but  one  that  no  one  will 
enjoy  at  my  expense." 

A  momentary  expression  of  pleasure  unutterable  flashed 
across  his  face  and  into  his  eyes ;  then  was  repressed,  as 
he  said  : 

"You  must  listen  to  reason.  Have  I  not  told  you  a\. 
along  that  my  life  had  been  spoiled  by  my  own  fault  ? — 
that  I  had  disqualified  myself  to  take  any  leading  part 
amongst  men  ? — that  others  might  advance,  but  I  should 
remain  where  I  was  ?  And  have  you  not  the  answer  to 
all  here  ?  You  are  a  generous  soul,  I  know,  like  few 
others.  My  keenest  regret  now  is  that  I  did  not  tell  you 
long  ago  how  things  stood,  but  it  would  have  cost  me 
your  friendship,  and  I  have  not  too  many  things  to  make 
life  sweet  to  me." 

"Eugen,  why  did  you  not  tell  me  before  ?  I  know  the 
reason :  for  the  very  same  reason  which  prevents  you 
from  looking  me  in  the  eyes  now,  and  saying, '  I  am  guilty. 
I  did  that  of  which  I  am  accused,'  because  //  is  not  true. 
I  challenge  you:  meet  my  eyes,  and  say,  'I  am  guilty'." 

He  looked  at  me;  his  eyes  were  dim  with  anguish. 
He  said: 

"  Friedel,  I — cannot  tell  you  that  I  am  innocent." 

"  I  did  not  ask  you  to  do  so.  I  asked  you  to  say  you 
were  guilty,  and  on  your  soul  be  it  if  you  lie  to  me 
That  I  could  never  forgive." 

Again  he  looked  at  me,  strove  to  speak,  but  no  word 
came.  I  never  removed  my  eyes  from  his:  the  pause 
grew  long,  till  I  dropped  his  hands  and  turned  away  with 
a  smile. 

"Let    a   hundred    busybodies   raise    their    clamoring 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  3,7 

tongues,  they  can  never  divide  you  and  me.  If  it  were 
not  insulting  I  should  ask  you  to  believe  that  every  feeling 
of  mine  for  you  is  unchanged,  and  will  remain  so  as  long 
as  I  live." 

"  It  is  incredible.  Such  loyalty,  such — Friedel,  you  are 
a  fool!" 

His  voice  broke. 

"  I  wish  you  could  have  heard  Miss  Wedderburn  sing 
her  English  song  after  you  were  gone.  It  was  called, 
'  What  would  you  do,  Love  ? '  and  she  made  us  all  cry." 

"Ah,  Miss  Wedderburn  !  how  delightful  she  is!" 

"  If  it  is  any  comfort  to  you  to  know,  I  can  assure  you 
that  she  thinks  as  I  do.  I  am  certain  of  it." 

"Comfort — not  much.  It  is  only  that  if  I  ever  allowed 
myself  to  fall  in  love  again,  which  I  shall  not  do,  it  "would 
be  with  Miss  Wedderburn." 

The  tone  sufficiently  told  me  that  he  was  much  in  love 
with  her  already. 

"She  is  bewitching,"  he  added. 

"  If  you  do  not  mean  to  allow  yourself  to  fall  in  love 
with  her,"  I  remarked,  sententiously,  "because  it  seems 
that  '  allowing '  is  a  matter  for  her  to  decide,  not  the  men 
who  happen  to  know  her." 

"  I  shall  not  see  much  more  of  her.  I  shall  not  remain 
here." 

As  this  was  what  I  had  fully  expected  to  hear,  I  said 
nothing,  but  I  thought  of  Miss  Wedderburn,  and  grieved 
for  her. 

"Yes,  I  must  go  forth  from  hence,"  he  pursued.  "I 
suppose  I  ought  to  be  satisfied  that  I  have  had  three  years 
here.  I  wonder  if  there  is  any  way  in  which  a  man  could 
kill  all  trace  of  his  old  self;  a  man  who  has  every  desire 
to  lead  henceforth  a  new  life,  and  be  at  peace  and  charity 
with  all  men.  I  suppose  not — no.  I  suppose  the  brand 
has  to  be  carried  about  till  the  last ;  and  how  long  it  may 
be  before  that  'last'  comes!" 

I  was  silent.  I  had  put  a  good  face  upon  the  matter 
and  spoken  bravely  about  it.  I  had  told  him  that  I  did 
not  believe  him  guilty — that  my  regard  and  respect  were 
as  high  as  ever,  and  I  spoke  the  truth.  Both  before  and 


3*8 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


since  then  he  had  told  me  that  I  had  a  bump  of  venera- 
tion, and  one  of  belief,  ludicrously  out  of  proportion  to 
the  exigencies  of  the  age  in  which  I  lived. 

Be  it  so.  Despite  my  cheerful  words,  and  despite  the 
belief  I  did  feel  in  him,  I  could  not  help  seeing  that  he 
carried  himself  now  as  a  marked  man.  The  free,  open 
look  was  gone;  a  blight  had  fallen  upon  him,  and  he 
withered  under  it.  There  was  what  the  English  call  a 
"down"  look  upon  his  face,  which  had  not  been  there 
formerly,  even  in  those  worst  days  when  the  parting  from 
Sigmund  was  immediately  before  and  behind  us. 

In  the  days  which  immediately  followed  the  scene  at 
the  concert  I  noticed  how  he  would  set  about  things  with 
a  kind  of  hurried  zeal,  then  suddenly  stop  and  throw  them 
aside,  as  if  sick  of  them,  and  fall  to  brooding  with  head 
sunk  upon  his  breast,  and  lowering  brow ;  a  state  and  a 
spectacle  which  caused  me  pain  and  misery  not  to  be 
described.  He  would  begin  sudden  conversations  with 
me,  starting  with  some  question,  as  : 

"  Friedel,  do  you  believe  in  a  future  state  ?  " 

"  I  do,  and  I  don't.  I  mean  to  say  that  I  don't  know 
anything  about  it." 

"  Do  you  know  what  my  idea  of  heaven  would  be  ?  " 

"Indeed  I  don't,"  said  I,  feebly  endeavoring  a  feeble 
joke.  "A  place  where  all  the  fiddles  are  by  Stradivarius 
and  Guanarius,  and  all  the  music  comes  up  to  Beethoven." 

" No ;  but  a  place  where  there  are  no  mistakes" 

"No  mistakes?" 

"  y<z  wohl !  Where  it  would  not  be  possible  for  a  man 
with  fair  chances  to  spoil  his  whole  career  by  a  single  mis- 
take. Or,  if  there  were  mistakes,  I  would  arrange  that 
the  punishment  should  be  in  some  proportion  to  them — 
not  a  large  punishment  for  a  little  sin,  and  vice  versa" 

"  Well,  I  should  think  that  if  there  is  any  heaven  there 
would  be  some  arrangement  of  that  kind." 

••As  for  hell,"  he  went  on  in  a  low,  calm  tone  which  I 
had  learned  to  understand  meant  with  him  intense  earnest- 
ness, "  there  are  people  who  wonder  that  any  one  could  • 
invent  a  hell.  My  only  wonder  is  why  they  should  have 
resorted  to  fire  and  brimstone  to  enhance  its  terrors  when 
they  had  the  earth  full  of  misery  to  choose  from." 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


319 


"You  think  this  world  a  hell,  Eugen  ?" 

"Sometimes  I  think  it  the  very  nethermost  hell  of  hells, 
and  I  think  if  you  had  my  feelings  you  would  think  so 
too.  A  poet,  an  English  poet  (you  do  not  know  the  En- 
glish poets  as  you  ought,  Friedhelm),  has  said  that  the 
fiercest  of  all  hells  is  the  failure  in  a  great  purpose.  I 
used  to  think  that  a  fine  sentiment;  now  I  sometimes 
wonder  whether  to  a  man  who  was  once  inclined  to  think 
well  of  himself  it  may  not  be  a  much  fiercer  trial  to  look 
back  and  find  that  he  has  failed  to  be  commonly  honest 
and  upright.  It  is  a  nice  little  distinction — a  moral  wire- 
drawing which  I  would  recommend  to  the  romancers  if  I 
knew  any." 

Once  and  only  once  was  Sigmund  mentioned  between 
us,  and  Eugen  said : 

"  Nine  years,  were  you  speaking  of?  No — not  in  nine- 
teen, nor  in  ninety-nine  shall  I  ever  see  him  again." 

"Why?" 

"The  other  night,  and  what  occurred  then,  decided 
me.  Till  then  I  had  some  consolation  in  thinking  that 
the  blot  might  perhaps  be  wiped  out — the  shame  lived 
down.  Now  I  see  that  that  is  a  fallacy.  With  God's 
help  I  will  never  see  him  nor  speak  to  him  again.  It  is 
better  that  he  should  forget  me." 

His  voice  did  not  tremble  as  he  said  this,  though  I  knew 
that  the  idea  of  being  forgotten  by  Sigmund  must  be  to 
him  anguish  of  a  refinement  not  to  be  measured  by  me. 

I  bided  my  time,  saying  nothing.  I  at  least  was  too 
much  engrossed  with  my  own  affairs  to  foresee  the  cloud 
then  first  dawning  on  the  horizon,  which  they  who  looked 
towards  France  and  Spain  might  perhaps  perceive. 

It  had  not  come  yet — the  first  crack  of  that  thunder 
which  rattled  so  long  over  our  land,  and  when  we  saw 
the  dingy  old  Jager  Hof  at  one  end  of  the  Hofgarten, 
and  heard  by  chance  the  words  of  Hohenzollern-Signia- 
ringen,  no  premonition  touched  us.  My  mind  was  made 
up,  that  let  Eugen  go  when  and  where  he  would,  I  would 
go  \vith  him. 

I  had  no  ties  of  duty,  none  of  love  or  of  ambition  to 
separate  me  from  him ;  his  God  should  be  my  God,  and 


320 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


his  people  my  people;  if  the  God  were  a  jealous  God, 
dealing  out  wrath  and  terror,  and  the  people  should  dwin- 
dle to  outcasts  and  pariahs,  it  mattered  not  to  me.  I 
loved  him. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

"Nein,  langer  kann  ich  diesen  Kampf  nicht  kampfen, 

Den  Riesenkampf  der  Pflicht. 

Kannst  du  des  Herzen's  Flammentrieb  nicht  dampfen, 
So  fordre,  Tugend,  dieses  Opfer  nicht. 

"Geschworen  hab'  ich  's,  ja,  ich  hab's  geschworen, 

Mich  selbst  zu  bandigen. 

Hier  ist  dein  Kranz,  er  sei  auf  ewig  mir  verloren; 
Nimm  ihn  zuriick  und  lass  mich  siindigen." 

SCHILLER. 

IF  I  had  never  had  a  trouble  before  I  had  one  now — 
large,  stalwart,  robust.  For  what  seemed  to  me  a  long 
time  there  was  present  to  my  mind's  eye  little  but  the 
vision  of  a  large,  lighted  room — a  great  undefined  crowd 
surging  around  and  below,  a  small  knot  of  persons  and 
faces  in  sharp  distinctness  immediately  around  me;  low- 
spoken  words  with  a  question ;  no  answer — vehement  im- 
ploring for  an  answer — still  no  reply;  yet  another  sen- 
tence conjuring  denial,  and  then  the  answer  itself — the 
silence  that  succeeded  it ;  the  face  which  had  become  part 
of  my  thoughts  all  changed  and  downcast — the  man 
whom  I  had  looked  up  to,  feared,  honored,  as  chivalrous 
far  beyond  his  station  and  circumstances  slowly  walking 
away  from  the  company  of  his  fellows,  disgraced — fallen  ; 
having  himself  owned  to  the  disgrace  being  merited, 
pointed  at  as  a  cheat — bowing  to  the  accusation. 

It  drove  me  almost  mad  to  think  of  it.  I  suffered  the 
more  keenly  because  I  could  speak  to  no  one  of  what  had 
happened.  What  sympathy  should  I  get  from  any  living 


322  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

soul  by  explaining  my  sick  looks  and  absent  demeanor 
with  the  words,  "I  love  that  man  who  is  disgraced"  ?  I 
smiled  dryly  in  the  midst  of  my  anguish,  and  locked  it  the 
deeper  in  my  own  breast. 

I  had  believed  in  him  so  devotedly,  so  intensely,  had 
loved  him  so  entirely,  and  with  such  a  humility,  such  a 
consciousness  of  my  own  shortcomings  and  of  his  supe- 
riority. The  recoil  at  first  was  such  as  one  might  experi- 
ence who  embraces  a  veiled  figure,  presses  his  lips  to 
where  its  lips  should  be,  and  finds  that  he  kisses  a  corpse. 

Such,  I  say,  was  the  recoil  at  first.  But  a  recoil,  from 
its  very  nature,  is  short  and  vehement.  There  are  some 
natures,  I  believe,  which  after  a  shock  turn  and  flee  from 
the  shocking  agent.  Not  so  I.  After  figuratively  spring- 
ing back  and  pressing  my  hands  over  my  eyes,  I  removed 
them  again,  and  still  saw  his  face,  and — it  tortured  me  to 
have  to  own  it,  but  I  had  to  do  so — still  loved  that  face 
beyond  all  earthly  things. 

It  grew  by  degrees  familiar  to  me  again.  I  caught 
myself  thinking  of  the  past  and  smiling  at  the  remem- 
brance of  the  jokes  between  Eugen  and  Helfen  on  Car- 
nival Monday,  then  pulled  myself  up  with  a  feeling  of 
horror,  and  the  conviction  that  I  had  no  business  to  be 
thinking  of  him  at  all.  But  I  did  think  of  him  day  by 
day  and  hour  by  hour,  and  tortured  myself  with  thinking 
of  him,  and  wished,  yet  dreaded,  to  see  him,  and  wondered 
how  I  possibly  could  see  him,  and  could  only  live  on  in  a 
hope  which  was  not  fulfilled.  For  I  had  no  right  to  seek 
him  out.  His  condition  might  be  much — very  much  to 
me.  My  sympathy  or  pity  or  thought — as  I  felt  all  too 
keenly — could  be  nothing  to  him. 

Meanwhile,  as  is  usual  in  such  cases,  Circumstance 
composedly  took  my  affairs  into  her  hands  and  settled 
them  for  me  without  my  being  able  to  move  a  finger  in 
the  matter. 

The  time  was  approaching  for  the  departure  of  Von 
Francius.  Adelaide  and  I  did  not  exchange  a  syllable 
upon  the  subject.  Of  what  use  ?  I  knew  to  a  certain 
extent  what  was  passing  within  her.  I  knew  that  this 
child  of  the  world — were  we  not  all  children  of  the  world, 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


322 


and  not  of  light  ? — had  braced  her  moral  forces  to  meet 
the  worst,  and  was  awaiting  it  calmly. 

Adelaide,  like  me,  based  her  actions  not  upon  religion. 
Religion  was  for  both  of  us  an  utter  abstraction;  it 
touched  us  not.  That  which  gave  Adelaide  force  to  with- 
stand temptation,  and  to  remain  stoically  in  the  drear 
sphere  in  which  she  already  found  herself,  was  not  religion ; 
it  was  pride  on  the  one  hand,  and  on  the  other  love  for 
Max  von  Francius. 

Pride  forbade  her  to  forfeit  her  reputation,  which  was 
dear  to  her,  though  her  position  had  lost  the  charms  with 
which  distance  had  once  gilded  it  for  her.  Love  for  Von 
Francius  made  her  struggle  with  all  the  force  of  her  nat- 
ure to  remain  where  she  was,  renounce  him  blamelessly 
rather  than  yield  at  the  price  which  women  must  pay  who 
do  such  things  as  leave  their  husbands. 

It  was  wonderful  to  me  to  see  how  love  had  developed 
in  her  every  higher  emotion.  I  remembered  how  cynical 
she  had  always  been  as  to  the  merits  of  her  own  sex. 
Women,  according  to  her,  were  an  inferior  race,  who 
gained  their  poor  ends  by  poor  means.  She  had  never 
been  hard  upon  female  trickery  and  subterfuge.  Bah ! 
she  said,  how  else  are  they  to  get  what  they  want  ?  But 
now  with  the  exalted  opinion  of  a  man,  had  come  exalted 
ideas  as  to  the  woman  fit  for  his  wife. 

Since  to  go  to  him  she  must  be  stained  and  marked  for- 
ever, she  would  remain  away  from  him.  Never  should 
any  circumstance  connected  with  him  be  made  small  or 
contemptible  by  any  act  of  hers.  I  read  the  motive,  and, 
reading  it,  read  her. 

Von  Francius  was,  equally  with  herself,  distinctly  and 
emphatically  a  child  of  the  world — as  she  honored  him  he 
honored  her.  He  proved  his  strength  and  the  innate  no- 
bility of  his  nature  by  his  stoic  abstinence  from  evasion  of 
or  rebellion  against  the  decree  which  had  gone  out  against 
their  love.  He  was  a  better  man,  a  greater  artist,  a  more 
sympathetic  nature  now  than  before.  His  passage  through 
the  furnace  had  cleansed  him.  He  was  a  standing  exam- 
ple to  me  that  despite  what  our  preachers  and  our  poets, 
our  philosophers  and  our  novelists  are  incessantly  dinning 


324  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

into  our  ears,  there  are  yet  men  who  can  renounce — men 
to  whom  honor  and  purity  are  still  the  highest  goddesses. 

I  saw  him,  naturally,  and  often  during  these  days — so 
dark  for  all  of  us.  He  spoke  to  me  of  his  prospects  in 
his  new  post.  He  asked  me  if  I  would  write  to  him  oc- 
casionally, even  if  it  should  be  only  three  or  four  times  in 
the  year. 

"  Indeed  I  will,  if  you  care  to  hear  from  me,"  said  I, 
much  moved. 

This  was  at  our  last  music  lesson,  in  my  dark  little  room 
at  the  Wehrhahn.  Von  Francius  had  made  it  indeed  a 
lesson,  more  than  a  lesson,  a  remembrance  to  carry  with 
me  forever,  for  he  had  been  playing  Beethoven  and  Schu- 
bert to  me. 

"Fraulein  May,  everything  concerning  you  and  yours 
will  everbe  of  the  very  deepest  interest  to  me,"  he  said,  look- 
ing earnestly  at  me.  "Take  a  few  words  of  advice  and  in- 
formation from  one  who  has  never  felt  anything  for  you 
since  he  first  met  you  but  the  truest  friendship.  You  have 
in  you  the  materials  of  a  great  artist ;  whether  you  have 
the  Spartan  courage  and  perseverance  requisite  to  attain 
the  position,  I  can  hardly  tell.  If  you  choose  to  become 
an  artist,  eine  vollkommene  Kunstlerin,  you  must  give  every- 
thing else  up — love  and  marriage  and  all  that  interferes 
with  your  art,  for,  liebes  Fraulein,  you  cannot  pursue  two 
things  at  once." 

"Then  I  have  every  chance  of  becoming  as  great  an 
artist  as  possible,"  said  I;  "for  none  of  those  things  will 
ever  interfere  with  my  pursuit  of  art." 

"Wait  till  the  time  of  probation  comes;  you  are  but 
eighteen  yet,"  said  he,  kindly,  but  skeptically. 

"Herr  von  Francius" — the  words  started  to  my  lips  as 
the  truth  into  my  mind,  and  fell  from  them  in  the  strong 
desire  to  speak  to  some  one  of  the  matter  that  then  filled 
my  whole  soul — "  I  can  tell  you  the  truth — you  will  un- 
derstand— the  time  of  probation  has  been — it  is  over — 
past.  I  am  free  for  the  future." 

"So!"  said  he  in  a  very  low  voice,  and  his  eyes  were 
filled,  less  with  pity  than  with  a  fellow-feeling  which  made 
them  "wondrous  kind."  "You  too  have  suffered,  and 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  325 

given  up.  There  are  then  four  people — you  and  I,  and 
one  whose  name  I  will  not  speak,  and — may  I  guess  once, 
Fraulein  May?" 

I  bowed. 

"  My  first  violinist,  nicht  wahr  ?  " 

Again  I  assented,  silently.     He  went  on : 

"  Fate  is  perverse  about  these  things.  And  now,  my 
fair  pupil,  you  understand  somewhat  more  that  no  true 
artist  is  possible  without  sorrow  and  suffering  and  renun- 
ciation. And  you  will  think  sometimes  of  your  old,  fault- 
finding, grumbling  master— -ja?  " 

"  Oh,  Herr  von  Francius  !  "  cried  I,  laying  my  hand 
upon  the  key-board  of  the  piano,  and  sobbing  aloud. 
"The  kindest,  best,  most  patient,  gentle — " 

I  could  say  no  more. 

"That  is  mere  nonsense,  my  dear  May,"  he  said,  pass- 
ing his  hand  over  my  prostrate  head;  and  I  felt  that  it — 
the  strong  hand — trembled.  "  I  want  a  promise  from  you. 
Will  you  sing  for  me  next  season  ?  " 

"  If  I  am  alive,  and  you  send  for  me,  I  will." 

"Thanks.  And — one  other  word.  Some  one  very 
dear  to  us  both  is  very  sad;  she  will  become  sadder. 
You,  my  child,  have  the  power  of  allaying  sadness,  and 
soothing  grief  and  bitterness  in  a  remarkable  degree. 
Will  you  expend  some  of  that  power  upon  her  when  her 
burden  grows  very  hard,  and  think  that  with  each  word 
of  kindness  to  her  you  bind  my  heart  more  fast  to  your- 
self?" 

"  I  will — indeed  I  will." 

"We  will  not  say  good-bye,  but  only  Auf  Wieder- 
se/zen/"  said  he.  "You  and  I  shall  meet  again.  lam 
sure  of  that.  Meine  Hebe,  gute  Schiilerin,  adieu  ! " 

Choked  with  tears,  I  passively  let  him  raise  my  hand  to 
his  lips.  I  hid  my  face  in  my  handkerchief  to  repress  my 
fast-flowing  tears.  I  would  not,  because  I  dared  not,  look 
at  him.  The  sight  of  his  kind  and  trusted  face  would 
give  me  too  much  pain. 

He  loosed  my  hand.  I  heard  steps;  a  door  opened 
and  closed.  He  was  gone!  My  last  lesson  was  over. 
My  trusty  friend  had  departed.  He  was  to  leave  Elber- 
thal  on  the  following  day. 


3  2  6  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


The  next  night  there  was  an  entertainment — half  con- 
cert, half  theatricals,  wholly  dilettante — at  the  Malkasten, 
the  Artists'  Club.  We,  as  is  the  duty  of  a  decorous  En- 
glish family,  buried  all  our  private  griefs,  and  appeared  at 
the  entertainment,  to  which,  indeed,  Adelaide  had  re- 
ceived a  special  invitation.  I  was  going  to  remain  with 
Adelaide  until  Sir  Peter's  return,  which,  we  understood, 
was  to  be  in  the  course  of  a  few  weeks,  and  then  I  was 

going  to  ,  by  the  advice  of  Von  Francius,  there  to 

finish  my  studies. 

Dearly  though  I  loved  music,  divine  as  she  ever  has 
been,  and  will  be,  to  me,  yet  the  idea  of  leaving  Von 
Francius  for  other  masters  had  at  first  almost  shaken  my 
resolution  to  persevere.  But,  as  I  said,  all  this  was  taken 
out  of  my  hands  by  an  irresistible  concourse  of  circum- 
stances, over  which  I  had  simply  no  control  whatever. 

Adelaide,  Harry,  and  I  went  to  the  Malkasten.  The 
gardens  were  gayly  illuminated;  there  was  a  torchlight 
procession  round  the  little  artificial  lake,  and  chorus-sing- 
ing— merry  choruses,  such  as  Wenn  Zweie  sich  gut  sind, 
sie  finden  den  Weg — which  were  cheered  and  laughed  at. 
The  fantastically-dressed  artists  and  their  friends  were 
flitting,  torch  in  hand,  about  the  dark  alleys  under  the 
twisted  acacias  and  elms,  the  former  of  which  made  the 
air  voluptuous  with  their  scent.  Then  we  adjourned  to  the 
saal  for  the  concert,  and  heard  on  all  sides  regrets  about 
the  absence  of  Von  Francius. 

We  sat  out  the  first  part  of  the  festivities,  which  were  to 
conclude  with  theatricals.  During  the  pause  we  went  into 
the  garden.  The  May  evening  was  balmy  and  beautiful ; 
no  moonlight,  but  many  stars  and  the  twinkling  lights  in 
the  garden. 

Adelaide  and  I  had  seated  ourselves  on  a  circular  bench 
surrounding  a  big  tree,  which  had  the  mighty  word 
GOETHE  cut  deeply  into  its  rugged  bark.  When  the 
others  began  to  return  to  the  Malkasten,  Adelaide,  turning 
to  Arkwright,  said : 

"  Harry,  will  you  go  in  and  leave  my  sister  and  me  here, 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


327 


that's  a  good  boy  ?  You  can  call  for  us  when  the  play  is 
over." 

"  All  right,  my  lady,"  assented  he,  amiably,  and  left  us. 

Presently  Adelaide  and  I  moved  to  another  seat,  near 
to  a  small  table  under  a  thick  shade  of  trees.  The  pleas- 
ant, cool  evening  air  fanned  our  faces ;  all  was  still  and 
peaceful.  Not  a  soul  but  ourselves  had  remained  out  of 
doors.  The  still  drama  of  the  marching  stars  was  less  at- 
tractive than  the  amateur  murdering  of  Die  Piccolomini 
within.  The  tree-tops  rustled  softly  over  our  heads. 
The  lighted  pond  gleamed  through  the  low-hanging 
boughs  at  the  other  end  of  the  garden.  A  peal  of  laughter 
and  a  round  of  applause  came  wafted  now  and  then  from 
within.  Ere  long  Adelaide's  hand  stole  into  mine,  which 
closed  over  it,  and  we  sat  silent. 

Then  there  came  a  voice.  Some  one — a  complaisant 
dilettantin — was  singing  Thekla's  song.  We  heard  the  re- 
frain—  distance  lent  enchantment;  it  sounded  what  it 
really  was,  deep  as  eternity  : 

"  Ich  habegekbt  und ge&bet." 

Adelaide  moved  uneasily ;  her  hand  started  nervously, 
and  a  sigh  broke  from  her  lips. 

"  Schiller  wrote  from  his  heart,"  said  she  in  a  low  voice. 

"  Indeed,  yes,  Adelaide." 

"  Did  you  say  good-bye  to  Von  Francius,  May,  yester- 
day ?" 

"  Yes — at  least,  we  said  au  revoir.  He  wants  me  to 
sing  for  him  next  winter." 

"  Was  he  very  down  ?  " 

"  Yes — very.     He — " 

A  footstep  close  at  hand.  A  figure  passed  in  the  un- 
certain light,  dimly  discerned  us,  paused,  and  glanced  at 
us. 

"Max!"  exclaimed  Adelaide  in  a  low  voice,  full  of  sur- 
prise and  emotion,  and  she  half  started  up. 

"  It  is  you !     That  is  too  wonderful ! "  said  he,  pausing. 

"  You  are  not  yet  gone  ?  " 

"I  have  been  detained  to-day.  I  leave  early  to-mor- 
row. I  thought  I  would  take  at  least  one  turn  in  the 


,2g  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN, 

Malkasten  garden,  which  I  may  perhaps  never  see  or 
enter  again.  I  did  not  know  you  were  here." 

«\Ve — May  and  I — thought  it  so  pleasant  that  we 
would  not  go  in  again  to  listen  to  the  play." 

Von  Francius  had  come  under  the  trees  and  was  now 
leaning  against,  a  massive  trunk;  his  slight,  tall  figure 
almost  lost  against  it ;  his  arms  folded,  and  an  imposing 
calm  upon  his  pale  face,  which  was  just  caught  by  the 
gleam  of  a  lamp  outside  the  trees. 

"  Since  this  accidental  meeting  has  taken  place,  I  may 
have  the  privilege  of  saying  adieu  to  your  ladyship." 

"Yes — "  said  Adelaide  in  a  strange,  low,  much-moved 
tone. 

I  felt  uneasy,  I  was  sorry  this  meeting  had  taken  place. 
The  shock  and  repulsion  of  feeling  for  Adelaide,  after  she 
had  been  securely  calculating  that  Von  Francius  was  a 

hundred  miles  on  his  way  to ,  was  too  severe.  I 

could  tell  from  the  very  timbre  of  her  voice  and  its  faint 
vibration  how  agitated  she  was,  and  as  she  seated  herself 
again  beside  me,  I  felt  that  she  trembled  like  a  reed. 

"It  is  more  happiness  than  I  expected,"  went  on  Von 
Francius,  and  his  voice  too  was  agitated.  Oh,  if  he 
would  only  say  "  Farewell,  "  and  go  ! 

"  Happiness ! "  echoed  Adelaide  in  a  tone  whose 
wretchedness  was  too  deep  for  tears. 

"  Ah !  You  correct  me.  Still  it  is  a  happiness ;  there 
are  some  kinds  of  joy  which  one  cannot  distinguish  from 
griefs,  my  lady,  until  one  comes  to  think  that  one  might 
have  been  without  them,  and  then  one  knows  their  real 
nature." 

She  clasped  her  hands.  I  saw  her  bosom  rise  and  fall 
with  long,  stormy  breaths. 

I  trembled  for  both ;  for  Adelaide,  whose  emotion  and 
anguish  were,  I  saw,  mastering  her ;  for  Von  Francius,  be- 
cause if  Adelaide  failed  he  must  find  it  almost  impossible 
to  repulse  her. 

"  Herr  Von  Francius,"  said  I  in  a  quick,  low  voice, 
making  one  step  toward  him,  and  laying  my  hand  upon 
his  arm,  "  leave  us !  If  you  do  love  us,"  I  added  in  a 
whisper,  "  leave  us !  Adelaide,  say  good-bye  to  him — let 
him  go!" 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


329 


"  You  are  right,"  said  Von  Francius  to  me,  before  Ade- 
laide had  time  to  speak ;  "  you  are  quite  right." 

A  pause.  He  stepped  up  to  Adelaide.  I  dared  not 
interfere.  Their  eyes  met,  and  his  will  not  to  yield  pro- 
duced the  same  in  her,  in  the  shape  of  a  passive,  voice- 
less acquiescence  in  his  proceedings.  He  took  her  hands, 
saying : 

"  My  lady,  adieu !  Heaven  send  you  peace,  or  death, 
which  brings  it,  or — whatever  is  best." 

Loosing  her  hands  he  turned  to  me,  saying  distinctly : 

"As  you  are  a  woman,  and  her  sister,  do  not  forsake 
her  now." 

Then  he  was  gone.  She  raised  her  arms  and  half  fell 
against  the  trunk  of  the  giant  acacia  beneath  which  we 
had  been  sitting;  face  forwards,  as  if  drunk  with  misery. 

Von  Francius,  strong  and  generous,  whose  very  sub- 
mission seemed  to  brace  one  to  meet  trouble  with  a 
calmer,  firmer  front,  was  gone.  I  raised  my  eyes,  and 
did  not  even  feel  startled,  only  darkly  certain  that  Ade- 
laide's evil  star  was  high  in  the  heaven  of  her  fate,  when 
I  saw,  calmly  regarding  us,  Sir  Peter  Le  Marchant. 

In  another  moment  he  stood  beside  his  wife,  smiling, 
and  touched  her  shoulder :  with  a  low  cry  she  raised  her 
face,  shrinking  away  from  him.  She  did  not  seem  sur- 
prised either,  and  I  do  not  'think  people  often  are  sur- 
prised at  the  presence,  however  sudden  and  unexpected, 
of  their  evil  genius.  It  is  good  luck  which  surprises  the 
average  human  being. 

"  You  give  me  a  cold  welcome,  my  lady,"  he  remarked. 
"You  are  so  overjoyed  to  see  me,  I  suppose.  Your  car- 
riage is  waiting  outside.  I  came  in  it,  and  Arkwright 
told  me  I  should  find  you  here.  Suppose  you  come 
home.  We  shall  be  less  disturbed  there  than  in  these 
public  gardens." 

Tone  and  words  all  convinced  me  that  he  had  heard 
most  of  what  had  passed,  and  would  oppress  her  with  it 
hereafter. 

The  late  scene  had  apparently  stunned  her.  After  the 
first  recoil  she  said,  scarcely  audibly,  "  I  am  ready,"  and 
moved.  He  offered  her  his  arm;  she  took  it,  turning  to 
me  and  saying,  "Come,  May!" 


33o  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

"Excuse  me,"  observed  Sir  Peter,  "you  are  better 
alone.  I  am  sorry  I  cannot  second  your  invitation  to 
my  charming  sister-in-law.  I  do  not  think  you  fit  for  any 
society — even  hers." 

"I  cannot  leave  my  sister,  Sir  Peter;  she  is  not  fit  to 
be  left,"  I  found  voice  to  say. 

"She  is  not  'left,'  as  you  say,  my  dear.  She  has  her 
husband.  She  has  me"  said  he. 

Some  few  further  words  passed.  I  do  not  chronicle 
them.  Sir  Peter  was  as  firm  as  a  rock — that  I  was  help- 
less before  him  is  a  matter  of  course.  I  saw  my  sister 
handed  into  her  carriage ;  I  saw  Sir  Peter  follow  her — the 
carriage  drive  away.  I  was  left  alone,  half  mad  with 
terror  at  the  idea  of  her  state,  to  go  home  to  my  lodgings. 

Sir  Peter  had  heard  the  words  of  Von  Francius  to  me : 
"do  not  forsake  her  now,"  and  had  given  himself  the  sat- 
isfaction of  setting  them  aside  as  if  they  had  been  so 
much  waste  paper.  Von  Francius  was,  as  I  well  knew, 
trying  to  derive  comfort  in  this  very  moment  from  the 
fact  that  I  at  least  was  with  her;  I  who  loved  them  both, 
and  would  have  laid  down  my  life  for  them.  Well !  let 
him  have  the  comfort !  In  the  midst  of  my  sorrow  I 
rejoiced  that  he  did  not  know  the  worst,  and  would  not 
be  likely  to  imagine  for  himself  a  terror  grimmer  than  any 
feeling  I  had  yet  known. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

"Some  say,  'A  Queen  discrowned,'  and 'some  call  it  'Woman's 
shame.'  Others  name  it  '  A  false  step,'  or  'social  suicide,' just  as 
it  happens  to  strike  their  minds,  or  such  understanding  as  they  may 
be  blessed  with.  In  these  days  one  rarely  hears  seriously  men- 
tioned such  unruly  words  as  '  Love,'  or  '  wretchedness,'  or  '  despair,' 
which  may  nevertheless  be  important  factors  in  bringing  about  that 
result  which  stands  out  to  the  light  of  day  for  public  inspection." 

THE  three  days  which  I  passed  alone  and  in  suspense 
were  very  terrible  ones  to  me.  I  felt  myself  physic- 
ally as  well  as  mentally  ill,  and  it  was  in  vain  that  I  tried 
to  learn  anything  of  or  from  Adelaide,  and  I  waited  in  a 
kind  of  breathless  eagerness  for  the  end  of  it  all,  for  I 
knew  as  well  as  if  some  one  had  shouted  it  aloud  from 
the  house-tops,  that  that  farewell  in  the  Malkasten  garden 
was  not  the  end. 

Early  one  morning,  when  the  birds  were  singing  and 
the  sunshine  streaming  into  the  room,  Frau  Liitzler  came 
into  the  room  and  put  a  letter  into  my  hand,  which  she 
said  a  messenger  had  left.  I  took  it,  and  paused  a  mo- 
ment before  I  opened  it.  I  was  unwilling  to  face  what  I 
knew  was  coming — and  yet,  how  otherwise  could  the 
whole  story  have  ended  ? 

"  DEAR  MAY, 

"You,  like  me,  have  been  suffering  during  these 
three  days.  I  have  been  trying — yes,  I  have  tried  to 
believe  I  could  bear  this  life,  but  it  is  too  horrible.  Isn't 
it  possible  that  sometimes  it  may  be  right  to  do  wrong  ? 


.332  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

It  is  of  no  use  telling  you  what  has  passed,  but  it  is 
enough.  I  believe  I  am  only  putting  the  crowning  point 
to  my  husband's  revenge  when  I  leave  him.  He  will  be 
glad — he  does  not  mind  the  disgrace  for  himself;  and  he 
can  get  another  wife,  as  good  as  I,  when  he  wants  one. 
When  you  read  this,  or  not  long  afterwards,  I  shall  be 
with  Max  von  Francius.  I  wrote  to  him — I  asked  him 
to  save  me,  and  he  said  '  Come ! '  It  is  not  because  I 
want  to  go,  but  I  must  go  somewhere.  I  have  made  a 
great  mess  of  my  life.  I  believe  everybody  does  make  a 
mess  of  it  who  tries  to  arrange  things  for  himself.  Re- 
member that,  May. 

"I  wonder  if  we  shall  ever  meet  again.  Not  likely, 
when  you  are  married  to  some  respectable,  conventional 
man,  who  will  shield  you  from  contamination  with  such 
as  I.  I  must  not  write  more  or  I  shall  write  nonsense. 
Good-bye,  good-bye,  good-bye !  What  will  be  the  end 
of  me  ?  Think  of  me  sometimes,  and  try  not  to  think 
too  hardly.  Listen  to  your  heart — not  to  what  people 
say.  Good-bye  again ! 

"ADELAIDE." 

I  received  this  stroke  without  groan  or  cry,  tear  or 
shiver.  It  struck  home  to  me.  The  heavens  were  riven 
asunder — a  flash  came  from  them,  descended  upon  my 
head,  and  left  me  desolate.  I  stood,  I  know  not  how 
long,  stock-still  in  the  place  where  I  had  read  that  letter. 
In  novels  I  had  read  of  such  things ;  they  had  had  little 
meaning  for  me.  In  real  life  I  had  only  heard  them 
mentioned  dimly  and  distantly,  and  here  I  was  face  to 
face  with  the  awful  thing,  and  so  far  from  being  able  to 
deal  out  hearty,  untempered  condemnation,  I  found  that 
the  words  of  Adelaide's  letter  came  to  me  like  throes  of  a 
real  heart.  Bald,  dry,  disjointed  sentences  on  the  out- 
side ;  without  feeling  they  might  seem,  but  to  me  they 
were  the  breathless  exclamations  of  a  soul  in  supreme 
torture  and  peril.  My  sister  !  with  what  a  passion  of  love 
my  heart  went  out  to  her.  Think  of  you,  Adelaide,  and 
think  of  you  not  too  hardly  ?  Oh,  why  did  not  you  trust 
me  more  ? 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


333 


I  saw  her  as  she  wrote  those  words :  "  I  have  made  a 
great  mess  of  it."  To  make  a  mess  of  one's  life — one 
mistake  after  another,  till  what  might  have  been  at  least 
honest,  pure,  and  of  good  report,  becomes  a  stained,  limp, 
unsightly  thing,  at  which  men  feel  that  they  may  gaze 
openly,  and  from  which  women  turn  away  in  scorn  un- 
utterable ;  and  that  Adelaide,  my  proudest  of  proud  sis- 
ters, had  come  to  this ! 

I  was  not  thinking  of  what  people  would  say.  I  was 
not  wondering  how  it  had  come  about;  I  was  feeling 
Adelaide's  words  ever  more  and  more  acutely,  till  they 
seemed  to  stand  out  from  the  paper  and  turn  into  cries  of 
anguish  in  my  very  ears.  I  put  my  hands  to  my  ears :  I 
could  not  bear  those  notes  of  despair. 

"  What  will  be  the  end  of  me  ?  "  she  said,  and  I  shook 
from  head  to  foot  as  I  repeated  the  question.  If  her  will 
and  that  of  Von  Francius  ever  came  in  contact.  She  had 
put  herself  at  his  mercy  utterly :  her  whole  future  now 
depended  upon  the  good  pleasure  of  a  man — and  men 
were  selfish. 

With  a  faint  cry  of  terror  and  foreboding,  I  felt  every- 
thing whirl  unsteadily  around  me :  the  letter  fell  from  my 
hand ;  the  icy  band  that  had  held  me  fast,  gave  way.  All 
things  faded  before  me,  and  I  scarcely  knew  that  I  was 
sinking  upon  the  floor.  I  thought  I  was  dying;  then 
thought  faded  with  the  consciousness  that  brings  it. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

"Allein,  allein!  und  so  soil  ich  genesen? 
Allein,  allein  !  und  das  des  Schicksals  Segen  ! 
Allein,  allein  !  O  Gott,  ein  einzig  Wesen, 
Um  dieses  Haupt  an  seine  Brust  zu  legen !  " 

I  HAD  a  sharp,  if  not  a  long  attack  of  illness,  which 
left  me  weak,  shaken,  passive,  so  that  I  felt  neither 
ability  nor  wish  to  resist  those  who  took  me  into  their 
hands.  I  remember  being  surprised  at  the  goodness  of 
every  one  towards  me ;  astonished  at  Frau  Liitzler's  gentle 
kindness,  amazed  at  the  unfailing  goodness  of  Doctor 
Mittendorf  and  his  wife,  at  that  of  the  medical  man  who 
attended  me  in  my  illness.  Yes,  the  world  seemed  full  of 
kindness,  full  of  kind  people  who  were  anxious  to  keep 
me  in  it,  and  who  managed,  in  spite  of  my  effort  to  leave 
it,  to  retain  me. 

Doctor  Mittendorf,  the  oculist,  had  been  my  guardian 
angel.  It  was  he  who  wrote  to  my  friends  and  told  them 
of  my  illness ;  it  was  he  who  went  to  meet  Stella  and  Miss 
Hallam's  Merrick,  who  came  over  to  nurse  me — and  take 
me  home.  The  fiat  had  gone  forth.  I  was  to  go  home. 
I  made  no  resistance,  but  my  very  heart  shrank  away  in 
fear  and  terror  from  the  parting,  till  one  day  something 
happened  which  reconciled  me  to  going  home,  or  rather 
made  me  evenly  and  equally  indifferent  whether  I  went 
home,  or  stayed  abroad,  or  lived,  or  died,  or,  in  short, 
what  became  of  me. 

I  sat  one  afternoon  for  the  first  time  in  an  arm-chair 
opposite  the  window.  It  was  June,  and  the  sun  streamed 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


335 


warmly  and  richly  in.  The  room  was  scented  with  a 
bunch  of  wall-flowers  and  another  of  mignonette,  which 
Stella  had  brought  in  that  morning  from  the  market. 
Stella  was  very  kind  to  me,  but  in  a  superior,  patronizing 
way.  I  had  always  felt  deferentially  backward  before  the 
superior  abilities  of  both  my  sisters,  but  Stella  quite  over- 
awed me  by  her  decided  opinions  and  calm  way  of  setting 
me  right  upon  all  possible  matters. 

This  afternoon  she  had  gone  out  with  Merrick  to  enjoy 
a  little  fresh  air.  I  was  left  quite  alone,  with  my  hands 
in  my  lap,  feeling  very  weak,  and  looking  wistfully  towards 
the  well-remembered  windows  on  the  other  side  of  the 
street. 

They  were  wide  open:  I  could  see  inside  the  room. 
No  one  was  there — Friedhelm  and  Eugen  had  gone  out, 
no  doubt. 

The  door  of  my  room  opened,  and  Frau  Liitzler  came 
in.  She  looked  cautiously  around,  and  then,  having  as- 
certained that  I  was  not  asleep,  asked  in  a  nerve-disturb- 
ing whisper  if  I  had  everything  that  I  wanted. 

"Everything,  thank  you,  Frau  Liitzler,"  said  I.  "But 
come  in !  I  want  to  speak  to  you.  I  am  afraid  I  have 
given  you  no  end  of  trouble." 

"Ach,  ich  bitte  Sie,  Fraulein.'  Don't  mention  the 
trouble.  We  have  managed  to  keep  you  alive." 

How  they  all  did  rejoice  in  having  won  a  victory  over 
that  gray-winged  angel,  Death!  I  thought  to  myself, 
with  a  curious  sensation  of  wonder. 

"You  are  very  kind,"  I  said,  "and  I  want  you  to  tell 
me  something,  Frau  Liitzler;  how  long  have  I  been  ill?" 

"  Fourteen  days,  Fraulein  ;  little  as  you  may  think  it." 

"  Indeed.  I  have  heard  nothing  about  any  one  in  that 
time.  Who  has  been  made  Musik  Direktor  in  place  of 
Herr  von  Francius?" 

Frau  Liitzler  folded  her  arms  and  composed  herself  to 
tell  me  a  history. 

"  Jk,  Fraulein,  the  post  would  have  been  offered  to 
Herr  Courvoisier,  only,  you  see,  he  has  turned  out  a  good- 
for-nothing.  But  perhaps  you  heard  about  that  ?  " 

"  Oh  yes !     I  know  all  about  it,"  said  I,  hastily,  as  I 


336  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

passed  my  handkerchief  over  my  mouth  to  hide  the  spasm 
of  pain  which  contracted  it. 

"Of  course,  considering  all  that,  die  Direktion  could 
not  offer  it  to  him,  so  they  proposed  it  to  Herr  Helfen — 
you  know  Herr  Helfen,  Frdulein,  nicht?" 

I  nodded. 

"A  good  young  man!  a  worthy  young  man,  and  so 
popular  with  his  companions!  Aber  denken  Sie  nur ! 
The  authorities  might  have  been  offering  him  an  insult  in- 
stead of  a  good  post.  He  refused  it,  then  and  there; 
would  not  stop  to  consider  about  it — in  fact,  he  was  quite 
angry  about  it.  The  gentleman  who  was  chosen  at  last 
was  a  stranger,  from  Hanover." 

"  Herr  Helfen  refused  it — why,  do  you  know  ?  " 

"They  say,  because  he  was  so  fond  of  Herr  Cour- 
voisier,  and  would  not  be  set  above  him.  It  may  be  so. 
I  know  for  a  certainty  that,  so  far  from  taking  part  against 
Herr  Courvoisier,  he  would  not  even  believe  the  story 
against  him,  though  he  could  not  deny  it,  and  did  not  try 
to  deny  it.  Aber,  Frdulein — what  hearts  men  must  have  ! 
To  have  lived  three  years,  and  let  the  world  think  him  an 
honest  man,  when  all  the  time  he  had  that  on  his  con- 
science !  Schrecklich  /" 

Adelaide  and  Courvoisier,  it  seemed,  might  almost  be 
pelted  with  the  same  stones. 

"  His  wife,  they  say,  died  of  grief  at  the  disgrace — " 

"Yes,"  said  I,  wincing.  I  could  not  bear  this  any 
longer,  nor  to  discuss  Courvoisier  with  Frau  Liitzler,  and 
the  words  "his  wife,"  uttered  in  that  speculatively  gossip- 
ing tone,  repelled  me.  She  turned  the  subject  to  Helfen 
again. 

"Herr  Helfen  must  indeed  have  loved  his  friend,  for 
when  Herr  Courvoisier  went  away  he  went  with  him." 

"Herr  Courvoisier  is  gone?"  I  inquired  in  a  voice  so 
like  my  usual  one  that  I  was  surprised. 

"  Yes,  certainly  he  is  gone.  I  don't  know  where,  I  am 
sure." 

"  Perhaps  they  will  return  ?  " 

Frau  Liitzler  shook  her  head,  and  smiled  slightly 

"  Nee,  Frdulein  !  Their  places  were  filled  immediately. 
They  are  gone — ganz  und  gar." 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


337 


I  tried  to  listen  to  her,  tried  to  answer  her  as  she  went 
on  giving  her  opinions  upon  men  and  things,  but  the  effort 
collapsed  suddenly.  I  had  at  last  to  turn  my  head  away, 
and  close  my  eyes,  and  in  that  weary,  weary  moment  I 
prayed  to  God  that  He  would  let  me  die,  and  wondered 
again,  and  was  almost  angry  with  those  who  had  nursed 
me,  for  having  done  their  work  so  well.  "We  have  man- 
aged to  save  you,"  Frau  Liitzler  had  said.  Save  me  from 
what,  and  for  what  ? 

I  knew  the  truth,  as  I  sat  there ;  it  was  quite  too  strong 
and  too  clear  to  be  laid  aside,  or  looked  upon  with  doubt- 
ful eyes.  I  was  fronted  by  a  fact,  humiliating  or  not — a 
fact  which  I  could  not  deny. 

It  was  bad  enough  to  have  fallen  in  love  with  a  man 
who  had  never  showed  me  by  word  or  sign  that  he  cared 
for  me,  but  exactly  and  pointedly  the  reverse :  but  now  it 
seemed  the  man  himself  was  bad  too.  Surely  a  well- 
regulated  mind  would  have  turned  away  from  him — unin- 
fluenced. 

If  so,  then  mine  was  an  ill-regulated  mind.  I  had 
loved  him  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart :  the  world  with- 
out him  felt  cold,  empty  and  bare — desolate  to  live  in,  and 
shorn  of  its  sweetest  pleasures.  He  had  influenced  me ; 
he  influenced  me  yet — I  still  felt  the  words  true : 

"The  greater  soul  that  draweth  thee 
Hath  left  his  shadow  plain  to  see 
On  thy  fair  face,  Persephone  !  " 

He  had  bewitched  me :  I  did  feel  capable  of  "  making 
a  fool  of  myself"  for  his  sake.  I  did  feel  that  life  by  the 
side  of  any  other  man  would  be  miserable,  though  never 
so  richly  set ;  and  that  life  by  his  side  would  be  full  and 
complete  though  never  so  poor  and  sparing  in  its  circum- 
stances. I  make  no  excuses,  no  apologies  for  this  state 
of  things.  It  simply  was  so. 

Gone !  and  Friedhelm  with  him !  I  should  probably 
never  see  either  of  them  again.  "  I  have  made  a  mess  of 
my  life,"  Adelaide  had  said,  and  I  felt  that  I  might  chant 
the  same  dirge.  A  fine  ending  to  my  boasted  artistic  ca- 
reer! I  thought  of  how  I  had  sat  and  chattered  so  aim- 
lessly to  Courvoisier  in  the  cathedral  at  Koln,  and  had 
22 


338 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


little  known  how  large  and  how  deep  a  shadow  his  influ- 
ence was  to  cast  over  my  life. 

I  still  retained  a  habit  of  occasionally  kneeling  by  my 
bedside  and  saying  my  prayers,  and  this  night  I  felt  the 
impulse  to  do  so.  I  tried  to  thank  God  for  my  recovery. 
I  said  the  Lord's  Prayer :  it  is  an  universal  petition  and 
thanksgiving ;  it  did  not  too  nearly  touch  my  woes ;  it  al- 
lowed itself  to  be  said,  but  when  I  came  to  something 
nearer,  tried  to  say  a  thanksgiving  for  blessings  and  friends 
who  yet  remained,  my  heart  refused,  my  tongue  clave  to 
my  mouth.  Alas !  I  was  not  regenerate.  I  could  not 
thank  God  for  what  had  happened.  I  found  myself  think- 
ing of  "the  pity  on't,"  and  crying  most  bitterly  till  tears 
streamed  through  my  folded  fingers,  and  whispering,  "Oh, 
if  I  could  only  have  died  while  I  was  so  ill !  no  one  would 
have  missed  me,  and  it  would  have  been  so  much  better 
for  me ! " 

In  the  beginning  of  July,  Stella,  Merrick,  and  I  returned 
to  England,  to  Skernford,  home.  I  parted  in  silent  tears 
from  my  trusted  friends,  the  Mittendorfs,  who  begged  me 
to  come  and  stay  with  them  at  some  future  day.  The  an- 
guish of  leaving  Elberthal  did  not  make  itself  fully  felt  at 
first — that  remained  to  torment  me  at  a  future  day.  And 
soon  after  our  return  came  printed  in  large  type  in  all  the 
newspapers,  "  Declaration  of  War  between  France  and 
Germany."  Mine  was  amongst  the  hearts  which  panted 
and  beat  with  sickening  terror  in  England  while  the  dogs 
of  war  were  fastened  in  deadly  grip  abroad. 

My  time  at  home  was  spent  more  with  Miss  Hallam 
than  in  my  own  home.  I  found  her  looking  much  older, 
much  feebler,  and  much  more  subdued  than  when  she  had 
been  in  Germany.  She  seemed  to  find  some  comfort  from 
my  society,  and  I  was  glad  to  devote  myself  to  her.  But 
for  her  I  should  never  have  known  all  those  pains  and 
pleasures  which,  bitter  though  their  remembrance  might 
be,  were,  and  ever  would  be  to  me,  the  dearest  thing  of 
my  life. 

Miss  Hallam  seemed  to  know  this ;  she  once  asked  me, 
"Would  I  return  to  Germany  if  I  could?" — "Yes,"  said 
I,  "I  would." 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


339 


To  say  that  I  found  life  dull,  even  in  Skernford,  at  that 
time  would  be  untrue.  Miss  Hallam  was  a  furious  parti- 
san of  the  French,  and  I  dared  not  mention  the  war  to 
her,  but  I  took  in  the  Daily  News  from  my  private  funds, 
and  read  it  in  my  bedroom  every  night  with  dimmed  eyes, 
fast-coming  breath,  and  beating  heart.  I  knew — knew 
well  that  Eugen  must  be  fighting — unless  he  were  dead. 
And  I  knew,  too,  by  some  intuition  founded,  I  suppose, 
on  many  small  negative  evidences  unheeded  at  the  time, 
that  he  would  fight,  not  like  the  other  men  who  were  bat- 
tling for  the  sake  of  hearth  and  home,  and  sheer  love  and 
pride  for  the  Fatherland,  but  as  one  who  has  no  home  and 
no  Fatherland,  as  one  who  seeks  a  grave,  not  as  one  who 
combats  a  wrong. 

Stella  saw  the  pile  of  newspapers  in  my  room,  and  asked 
me  how  I  could  read  those  dreary  accounts  of  battles  and 
bombardments.  Beyond  these  poor  newspapers  I  had, 
during  the  sixteen  months  that  I  was  at  home,  but  scant 
tidings  from  without.  I  had  implored  Clara  Steinmann 
to  write  to  me  now  and  then,  and  tell  me  news  of  Elber- 
thal,  but  her  penmanship  was  of  the  most  modest  and  re- 
tiring description,  and  she  was,  too,  so  desperately  excited 
about  Karl  as  to  be  able  to  think  of  scarce  anything  else. 
Karl  belonged  to  a  Landwehr  regiment  which  had  not 
yet  been  called  out,  but  to  which  that  frightful  contingency 
might  happen  any  day ;  and  what  should  she,  Clara,  do 
in  that  case  ?  She  told  me  no  news ;  she  lamented  over 
the  possibility  of  Karl's  being  summoned  upon  active  ser- 
vice. It  was,  she  said,  grausam,  schrecklich  !  It  made 
her  almost  faint  to  write  about  it,  and  yet  did  she  com- 
pose four  whole  pages  in  that  condition.  The  barrack, 
she  informed  me,  was  turned  into  a  hospital,  and  she  and 
"Tante"  both  worked  hard.  There  was  much  work — 
dreadful  work  to  do — such  poor  groaning  fellows  to  nurse  ! 
"Herrgott!"  cried  poor  little  Clara,  "I  did  not  know  that 
the  world  was  such  a  dreadful  place ! "  Everything  was 
so  dear,  so  frightfully  dear,  and  Karl — that  was  the  burden 
of  her  song — might  have  to  go  into  battle  any  day. 

Also  through  the  public  papers  I  learned  that  Adelaide 
and  Sir  Peter  Le  Marchant  were  divided  forever.  As 


340  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

to  what  happened  afterwards  I  was  for  some  time  in  un- 
certainty, longing  most  intensely  to  know,  not  daring  to 
speak  of  it.  Adelaide's  name  was  the  signal  for  a  cold 
stare  from  Stella,  and  angry,  indignant  expostulation  from 
Miss  Hallam.  To  me  it  was  a  sorrowful  spell  which  I 
carried  in  my  heart  of  hearts. 

One  day  I  saw  in  a  German  musical  periodical  which  I 
took  in,  this  announcement :  "  Herr  Musik-direktor  Max 
Von  Francius  in has  lately  published  a  new  Sym- 
phonic in  B  minor.  The  productions  of  this  gifted  com- 
poser are  slowly  but  most  surely  making  the  mark  which 
they  deserve  to  leave  in  the  musical  history  of  our  nation  : 

he  has,  we  believe,  left for for  a  few  weeks  to 

join  his  lady  (seine  Gema/i/inJ,  who  is  one  of  the  most 
active  and  valuable  hospital  nurses  of  that  town,  now, 
alas !  little  else  than  a  hospital." 

This  paragraph  set  my  heart  beating  wildly.  Adelaide 
was  then  the  wife  of  Von  Francius.  My  heart  yearned 
from  my  solitude  towards  them  both.  Why  did  not  they 
write  ?  They  knew  how  I  loved  them.  Adelaide  could 
not  suppose  that  I  looked  upon  her  deed  with  the  eyes  of 
the  world  at  large — with  the  eyes  of  Stella  or  Miss  Hallam. 
Had  I  not  grieved  with  her  ?  Had  I  not  seen  the  dread- 
ful struggle  ?  Had  I  not  proved  the  nobility  of  Von 
Francius  ?  On  an  impulse  I  seized  pen  and  paper,  and 
wrote  to  Adelaide,  addressing  my  letter  under  cover  to 
her  husband  at  the  town  in  which  he  was  Music-direktor, 
To  him  I  also  wrote — only  a  few  words — "  Is  your  pupil 
forgotten  by  her  master  ?  he  has  never  been  forgotten  by 
her. " 

At  last  an  answer  came.  On  the  part  of  Adelaide  it 
was  short : 


"  DEAR  MAY, 

"  I  have  had  no  time  till  now  to  answer  your  letter. 
I  cannot  reply  to  all  your  questions.  You  ask  whether  I 
repent  what  I  have  done.  I  repent  my  whole  life.  If  I 
am  happy — how  can  I  be  happy  ?  I  am  busy  now,  and 
have  many  calls  upon  my  time.  My  husband  is  very 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


341 


good :  be  never  interposes  between  me   and   my   work. 
Shall  I  ever  come  to  England  again  ? — never." 

"  Yours, 

"A.  VON  F." 

No  request  to  write  again !  No  inquiry  after  friends  or 
relations !  This  letter  showed  me  that  whatever  /  might 
feel  to  her — however  my  heart  might  beat  and  long,  how 
warm  soever  the  love  I  bore  her,  yet  that  Adelaide  was 
now  apart  from  me — divided  in  very  thought.  It  was  a 
cruel  letter,  but  in  my  pain  I  could  not  see  that  it  had  not 
been  cruelly  intended.  Her  nature  had  changed.  But 
behind  this  pain  lay  comfort.  On  the  back  of  the  same 
sheet  as  that  on  which  Adelaide's  curt  epistle  was  written, 
were  some  lines  in  the  hand  I  knew  well. 

"  LIEBE  MAI"  (they  said), 

"  Forgive  your  master,  who  can  never  forget  you, 
nor  ever  cease  to  love  you.  You  suffer.  I  know  it :  I 
read  it  in  those  short,  constrained  lines,  so  unlike  your 
spontaneous  words  and  frank  smile.  My  dear  child,  re- 
member the  storms  that  are  beating  on  every  side — over 
our  country,  in  on  our  hearts.  Once  I  asked  you  to  sing 
for  me  sometime :  you  promised.  When  the  war  is  over 
I  shall  remind  you  of  your  promise.  At  present,  believe 
me,  silence  is  best. 

"Your  old  music-master, 

"M.  v.  F." 

Gall  and  honey,  roses  and  thistles,  a  dagger  at  the  heart 
and  a  caress  upon  the  lips ;  such  seemed  to  me  the  charac- 
ters of  the  two  letters  on  the  same  sheet  which  I  held  in 
my  hand.  Adelaide  made  my  heart  ache  ;  Von  Francius 
made  tears  stream  from  my  eyes.  I  reproached  myself 
for  having  doubted  him,  but  oh,  I  treasured  the  proof  that 
he  was  true  !  It  was  the  one  tangible  link  between  me, 
reality,  and  hard  facts,  and  the  misty  yet  beloved  life  I  had 
quitted.  My  heart  was  full  to  overflowing;  I  must  tell 
some  one — I  must  speak  to  some  one. 

Once  again  I  tried  to  talk  to  Stella  about  Adelaide,  but 


342  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

she  gazed  at  me  in  that  straight,  strange  way,  and  said 
coldly  that  she  preferred  not  to  speak  of  "  that."  I  could 
not  speak  to  Miss  Hallam  about  it.  Alone  in  the  broad 
meadows,  beside  the  noiseless  river,  I  sometimes  whispered 
to  myself  that  I  was  not  forgotten,  and  tried  to  console 
myself  with  the  feeling  that  what  Von  Francius  promised 
he  did — I  should  touch  his  hand,  hear  his  voice  again — 
and  Adelaide's.  For  the  rest,  I  had  to  lock  the  whole  af- 
fair— my  grief  and  my  love,  my  longing  and  my  anxiety, 
fast  within  my  own  breast,  and  did  so. 

It  was  a  long  lesson — a  hard  one ;  it  was  conned  with 
bitter  tears,  wept  long  and  alone  in  the  darkness;  it  was 
a  sorrow  which  lay  down  and  rose  up  with  me.  It 
taught  (or  rather  practiced  me  until  I  became  expert  in 
them)  certain  things  in  which  I  had  been  deficient;  reti- 
cence, self-reliance,  a  quicker  ability  to  decide  in  emergen- 
cies. It  certainly  made  me  feel  old  and  sad,  and  Miss 
Hallam  often  said  that  Stella  and  I  were  "  as  quiet  as 
nuns." 

Stella  had  the  power  which  I  so  ardently  coveted :  she 
was  a  first-rate  instrumentalist.  The  only  topic  she  and  I 
had  in  common  was  the  music  I  had  heard  and  taken 
part  in.  To  anything  concerning  that  she  would  listen 
for  hours. 

Meanwhile  the  war  rolled  on,  and  Paris  capitulated, 
and  peace  was  declared.  The  spring  passed  and  Ger- 
many laughed  in  glee,  and  bleeding  France  roused  her- 
self to  look  with  a  haggard  eye  around  her ;  what  she 
saw,  as  we  all  know,  desolation,  and  mourning,  and  woe. 
And  summer  glided  by,  and  autumn  came,  and  I  did 
not  write  either  to  Adelaide  or  Von  Francius.  I  had  a 
firm  faith  in  him — and  absolute  trust.  I  felt  I  was  not 
forgotten. 

In  less  than  a  year  after  my  return  to  England,  Miss 
Hallam  died.  The  day  before  her  death  she  called  me 
to  her,  and  said  words  which  moved  me  very  much. 

"May,  I  am  an  eccentric  old  woman,  and  lest  you 
should  be  in  any  doubt  upon  the  subject  of  my  feelings 
towards  you,  I  wish  to  tell  you  that  my  life  has  been 
more  satisfactory  to  me  ever  since  I  knew  you." 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


343 


"That  is  much  more  praise  than  I  deserve,  Miss  Hal- 
lam." 

"No,  it  isn't.  I  like  both  you  and  Stella.  Three 
months  ago  I  made  a  codicil  to  my  will  by  which  I  en- 
deavored to  express  that  liking.  It  is  nothing  very  bril- 
liant, but  I  fancy  it  will  suit  the  views  of  both  of  you." 

Utterly  astounded,  I  stammered  out  some  incoherent 
words. 

"There,  don't  thank  me,"  said  she.  "If  I  were  not 
sure  that  I  shall  die  to-morrow — or  thereabouts,  I  should 
put  my  plan  into  execution  at  once,  but  I  shall  not  be 
alive  at  the  end  of  the  week." 

Her  words  proved  true.  Grim,  sardonic,  and  cynical 
to  the  last,  she  died  quietly,  gladly  closing  her  eyes  which 
had  so  long  been  sightless.  She  was  sixty-five  years  old, 
and  had  lived  alone  since  she  was  five-and-twenty. 

The  codicil  to  her  will,  which  she  had  spoken  of  with 
so  much  composure,  left  three  hundred  pounds  a  year  to 
Stella  and  me.  She  wished  a  portion  of  it  to  be  devoted 
to  our  instruction  in  music,  vocal  and  instrumental,  at  any 
German  Conservatorium  we  might  select.  She  preferred 

that  of  L .  Until  we  were  of  age,  our  parents  or 

guardians  saw  to  the  dispensing  of  the  money,  after  that 
it  was  our  own — half  belonging  to  each  of  us ;  we  might 
either  unite  our  funds  or  use  them  separately  as  we  chose. 

It  need  scarcely  be  said  that  we  both  chose  that  course 
which  she  had  indicated.  Stella's  joy  was  deep  and  in- 
tense— mine  had  an  unavoidable  sorrow  mingled  with  it. 
At  the  end  of  September,  18 — ,  we  departed  for  Ger- 
many, and  before  going  to  L it  was  agreed  that  we 

should  pay  a  visit,  at  Elberthal,  to  my  friend  Doctor 
Mittendorf. 

It  was  a  gusty  September  night,  with  wind  dashing 
angrily  about  and  showers  of  rain  flying  before  the  gale, 
on  which  I  once  again  set  foot  in  Elberthal — the  place  I 
had  thought  never  more  to  see. 


BOOK  VI. 

ROTHENFELS. 


CHAPTER  I. 

"Freude  trinken  alle  Wesen 
An  den  Briisten  der  Natur ; 
Alle  Guten,  alle  Bosen 
Folgen  ihrer  Rosenspur." 

I  FELT  a  deep  rapture  in  being  once  more  in  that  land 
where  my  love,  if  he  did  not  live,  slept.  But  I  forbear 
to  dwell  on  that  rapture,  much  as  it  influenced  me.  It 
waxes  tedious  when  put  into  words — loses  color  and 
flavor,  like  a  pressed  flower. 

I  was  at  first  bitterly  disappointed  to  find  that  Stella 
and  I  were  only  to  have  a  few  days  in  Elberthal.  Doctor 
Mittendorf  no  longer  lived  there ;  but  only  had  his  official 
residence  in  the  town,  going  every  week-end  to  his  coun- 
try house,  or  "Schloss,"  as  he  ambitiously  called  it,  at 
Lahnburg,  a  four  hours'  railway  journey  from  Elberthal. 

Frau  Mittendorf,  who  had  been  at  Elberthal  on  a  visit, 
was  to  take  Stella  and  me  with  her  to  Lahnburg  on  the 
Tuesday  morning  after  our  arrival,  which  was  on  a  Friday 
evening. 

The  good  Doctor's  Schloss,  an  erection  built  like  the 
contrivances  of  the  White  Knight  in  "Through  the  Look- 
ing-Glass,"  on  "a  plan  of  his  own  invention,"  had  been 


345  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  345 

his  pet  hobby  for  years,  and  now  that  it  was  finished,  he 
invited  every  invitable  person  to  come  and  stay  at  it. 

It  was  not  likely  that  he  would  excuse  a  person  for 
whom  he  had  so  much  regard  as  he  professed  for  me 
from  the  honor,  and  I  was  fain  to  conceal  the  fact  that  I 
would  much  rather  have  remained  in  Elberthal,  and 
make  up  my  mind  to  endure  as  well  as  I  could  the  pros- 
pect of  being  buried  in  the  country  with  Frau  Mittendorf ' 
and  her  children. 


It  was  Sunday  afternoon.  An  equinoctial  gale  was 
raging,  or  rather  had  been  raging  all  day.  It  had  rained 
incessantly,  and  the  wind  had  howled.  The  skies  were 
cloud-laden,  the  wind  was  furious.  The  Rhine  was  so 
swollen  that  the  streets  in  the  lower  part  of  the  town 
sloping  to  the  river  were  under  water,  and  the  people 
going  about  in  boats. 

But  I  was  tired  of  the  house ;  the  heated  rooms  stifled 
me.  I  was  weary  of  Frau  Mittendorf 's  society,  and  thor- 
oughly dissatisfied  with  my  own. 

About  five  in  the  afternoon  I  went  to  the  window  and 
looked  out.  I  perceived  a  strip  of  pale,  watery  blue 
through  a  rift  in  the  storm-laden  clouds,  and  I  chose  to 
see  that,  and  that  only,  ignoring  the  wind-lashed  trees  of 
the  Alice;  the  leaves,  wet  and  sodden  and  sere,  hurrying 
panic-stricken  before  the  gale,  ignoring,  too,  the  low  wail 
promising  a  coming  hurricane,  which  sighed  and  soughed 
beneath  the  wind's  shrill  scream. 

There  was  a  temporary  calm,  and  I  bethought  myself 
that  I  would  go  to  church — not  to  the  Protestant  church 
attended  by  the  English  clique — heaven  forbid !  but  to 
my  favorite  haunt,  the  jfesuiten  Kirche. 

It  was  just  the  hour  at  which  service  would  be  going 
on.  I  asked  Stella  in  a  low  voice  if  she  would  not  like  to 
come ;  she  declined  with  a  look  of  pity  at  me,  so,  notify- 
ing my  intention  to  Frau  Mittendorf,  and  mildly  but  firmly 
leaving  the  room  before  she  could  utter  any  remonstrance, 
I  rushed  up-stairs,  clothed  myself  in  my  winter  mantle, 
threw  a  shawl  over  my  arm,  and  set  out. 


346 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


The  air  was  raw,  but  fresh;  life-giving  and  invigorating. 
The  smell  of  the  stove,  which  clung  to  me  still,  was  quickly 
dissipated  by  it.  I  wrapped  my  shawl  around  me,  turned 
down  a  side  street,  and  was  soon  in  the  heart  of  the  old 
part  of  the  town,  where  all  the  Roman  Catholic  churches 
were,  the  quarter  lying  near  the  river  and  wharves  and 
bridge  of  boats. 

I  liked  to  go  to  the  Jesuiten  Kirche,  and  placing  my- 
self in  the  background,  kneel  as  the  others  knelt,  and 
without  taking  part  in  the  service,  think  my  own  thoughts 
and  pray  my  own  prayers. 

Here  none  of  the  sheep  looked  wolfish  at  you  unless 
you  kept  to  a  particular  pen,  for  the  privilege  of  sitting  in 
which  you  paid  so  many  marks  per  quartal  to  a  respecta- 
ble functionary  who  came  to  collect  them.  Here  the 
men  came  and  knelt  down,  cap  in  hand,  and  the  women 
seemed  really  to  be  praying,  and  aware  of  what  they  were 
praying  for,  not  looking  over  their  prayer-books  at  each 
other's  clothes. 

I  entered  the  church.  Within  the  building  it  was  al- 
ready almost  dark.  A  reddish  light  burned  in  a  great 
glittering  censer,  which  swung  gently  to  and  fro  in  the 
chancel. 

There  were  many  people  in  the  church,  kneeling  in 
groups  and  rows,  and  all  occupied  with  their  prayers.  I, 
too,  knelt  down,  and  presently  as  the  rest  sat  up  I  sat  up 
too.  A  sad-looking  monk  had  ascended  the  pulpit,  and 
was  beginning  to  preach.  His  face  was  thin,  hollow,  and 
ascetic-looking ;  his  eyes  blazed  bright  from  deep,  sunken 
sockets.  His  cowl  came  almost  up  to  his  ears.  I  could 
dimly  see  the  white  cord  round  his  waist  as  he  began  to 
preach,  at  first  in  a  low  and  feeble  voice,  which  gradually 
waxed  into  power. 

He  was  in  earnest — whether  right  or  wrong  he  was  in 
earnest.  I  listened  with  the  others  to  what  he  said.  He 
preached  the  beauties  of  renunciation,  and  during  his  dis- 
course quoted  the  very  words  which  had  so  often  haunted 
me — Entbehren  sollst  du  !  sollst  entbehren  ! 

His  earnestness  moved  me  deeply.  His  voice  was 
musical,  sweet.  His  accent  made  the  German  burr  soft ; 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


347 


he  was  half  Italian.  I  had  been  at  the  Instrumental 
Concert  the  previous  night,  for  old  associations'  sake,  and 
they  had  played  the  two  movements  of  Schubert's  unfin- 
ished Symphony — the  B  Minor.  The  refrain  in  the  last 
movement  haunted  me — a  refrain  of  seven  cadences, 
which  rises  softly  and  falls,  dies  away,  is  carried  softly 
from  one  instrument  to  another,  wanders  afar,  returns 
again,  sinks  lower  and  lower,  deeper  and  deeper,  till  at 
last  the  Celli  (if  I  mistake  not)  takes  it  up  for  the  last 
time,  and  the  melody  dies  a  beautiful  death,  leaving  you 
undecided  whether  to  weep  or  smile,  but  penetrated 
through  and  through  with  its  dreamy  loveliness. 

This  exquisite  refrain  lingered  in  my  memory  and 
echoed  in  my  mind,  like  a  voice  from  some  heavenly 
height,  telling  me  to  rest  and  be  at  peace,  in  time  to  the 
swinging  of  the  censer,  in  harmony  with  the  musical 
southern  voice  of  that  unknown  Brother  Somebody. 

By  degrees  I  began  to  think  that  the  censer  did  not 
sway  so  regularly,  so  like  a  measured  pendulum  as  it  had 
done,  but  was  moving  somewhat  erratically,  and  borne 
upon  the  gale  came  a  low,  ominous  murmur,  which  first 
mingled  itself  with  the  voice  of  the  preacher,  and  then 
threatened  to  dominate  it.  Still  the  refrain  of  the  Sym- 
phony rang  in  my  ears,  and  I  was  soothed  to  rest  by  the 
inimitable  nepenthe  of  music. 

But  the  murmur  of  which  I  had  so  long  been,  as  it 
were,  half-conscious,  swelled  and  drove  other  sounds  and 
the  thoughts  of  them  from  my  mind.  It  grew  to  a  deep, 
hollow  roar — a  very  hurricane  of  a  roar.  The  preacher's 
voice  ceased,  drowned. 

I  think  none  of  us  were  at  first  certain  about  what  was 
happening ;  we  only  felt  that  something  tremendous  was 
going  on.  Then,  with  one  mighty  bang  and  blow  of  the 
tempest,  the  door  by  which  I  had  entered  the  church  was 
blown  bodily  in,  and  fell  crashing  upon  the  floor;  and 
after  that  the  hurricane  came  rushing  through  the  church 
with  the  howl  of  a  triumphant  demon,  and  hurried  round 
the  building,  extinguishing  every  light,  and  turning  a 
temple  of  God  into  Hades. 

Sounds  there  were  as  of  things  flapping  from  the  walls, 


348 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


as  of  wood  falling ;  but  all  was  in  pitchiest  darkness — a 
very  "darkness  which  might  be  felt."  Amid  the  roar  of 
the  wind  came  disjointed,  broken  exclamations  of  terrified 
women  and  angry,  impatient  men.  "  Ach  Gott!"  "  Du 
meine  Zeit .'"  " Herr  du  meine  Gutef"  "  Oh  je.f"  etc., 
rang  all  round,  and  hurrying  people  rushed  past  me, 
making  confusion  worse  confounded,  as  they  scrambled 
past  to  try  to  get  out. 

I  stood  still,  not  from  any  bravery  or  presence  of  mind, 
but  from  the  utter  annihilation  of  both  qualities  in  the 
shock  and  the  surprise  of  it  all.  At  last  I  began  trying  to 
grope  my  way  towards  the  door.  I  found  it.  Some 
people — I  heard  and  felt  rather  than  saw — were  standing 
about  the  battered-in  door,  and  there  was  the  sound  of 
water  hurrying  past  the  door-way.  The  Rhine  was  rush- 
ing down  the  street. 

"  We  must  go  to  the  other  door — the  west  door,"  said 
some  one  amongst  the  people;  and  as  the  group  moved 
I  moved  too,  beginning  to  wish  myself  well  out  of  it. 

We  reached  the  west  door;  it  led  into  a  small  lane  or 
gasse,  regarding  the  geography  of  which  I  was  quite  at 
sea,  for  I  had  only  been  in  it  once  before.  I  stepped 
from  the  street  into  the  lane,  which  was  in  the  very  black- 
ness of  darkness,  and  seemed  to  be  filled  with  a  wind  and 
a  hurricane  which  one  could  almost  distinguish  and  grasp. 

The  roar  of  the  wind  and  the  surging  of  water  were  all 
around,  and  were  deafening.  I  followed,  as  I  thought, 
some  voices  which  I  heard,  but  scarcely  knew  where  I 
was  going,  as  the  wind  seemed  to  be  blowing  all  ways 
at  once,  and  there  came  to  me  an  echo  here  and  an  echo 
there,  misleading  rather  than  guiding.  In  a  few  moments 
I  felt  my  foot  upon  wood,  and  there  was  a  loud  creaking 
and  rattling,  as  of  chains,  a  groaning,  splitting,  and  great 
uproar  going  on,  as  well  as  a  motion  as  if  I  were  on  board 
a  ship. 

After  making  a  few  steps  I  paused.  It  was  utterly  im- 
possible that  I  could  have  got  upon  a  boat — wildly  im- 
possible. I  stood  still,  then  went  on  a  few  steps.  Still 
the  same  extraordinary  sounds — still  such  a  creaking  and 
groaning — still  the  rush,  rush,  and  swish,  swish  of  water; 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  349 

but  not  a  human  voice  any  more,  not  a  light  to  be  seen, 
not  a  sign ! 

With  my  hat  long  since  stripped  from  my  head  and 
launched  into  darkness  and  space,  my  hair  lashed  about 
me  in  all  directions,  my  petticoats  twisted  round  me  like 
ropes,  I  was  utterly  and  completely  bewildered  by  the 
thunder  and  roar  of  all  around.  I  no  longer  knew  which 
way  I  had  come  nor  where  to  turn.  I  could  not  imagine 
where  I  was,  and  my  only  chance  seemed  to  be  to  hold 
fast  and  firm  to  the  railing  against  which  the  wind  had 
unceremoniously  banged  me. 

The  creaking  grew  louder — grew  into  a  crash ;  there 
was  a  splitting  of  wood,  a  snapping  of  chains,  a  kind  of 
whirl,  and  then  I  felt  the  wind  blow  upon  me,  first  from 
this  side,  then  from  that,  and  became  conscious  that  the 
structure  upon  which  I  stood  was  moving  —  floating 
smoothly  and  rapidly  upon  water.  In  an  instant  (when 
it  was  too  late)  it  all  flashed  upon  my  mind.  I  had  wan- 
dered upon  the  Schiffbriicke,  or  bridge  of  boats  which 
crossed  the  Rhine  from  the  foot  of  the  market-place,  and 
this  same  bridge  had  been  broken  by  the  strength  of  the 
water  and  wind,  and  upon  a  portion  of  it  I  was  now 
floating  down  the  river. 

With  my  usual  wisdom,  and  "  the  shrewd  application  of 
a  wide  experience  so  peculiar  to  yourself,"  as  some  one 
has  since  insulted  me  by  saying,  I  instantly  gave  myself 
up  as  lost.  The  bridge  would  run  into  some  other  bridge, 
or  dash  into  a  steamer,  or  do  something  horrible,  and  I 
should  be  killed,  and  none  would  know  of  my  fate ;  or  it 
would  all  break  into  little  pieces,  and  I  should  have  to 
cling  to  one  of  them,  and  should  inevitably  be  drowned. 

In  any  case,  my  destruction  was  only  a  matter  of  time. 
How  I  loved  my  life  then !  How  sweet,  and  warm,  and 
full,  and  fresh  it  seemed !  How  cold  the  river,  and  how 
undesirable  a  speedy  release  from  the  pomps  and  vanities 
of  this  wicked  world  ! 

The  wind  was  still  howling  horribly — chanting  my  fu- 
neral dirge.  Like  grim  death,  I  held  on  to  my  railing, 
and  longed,  with  a  desperate  longing,  for  one  glimpse  of 
light. 


35o  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

I  had  believed  myself  alone  upon  my  impromptu  raft — 
or  rather,  it  had  not  occurred  to  me  that  there  might  be 
another  than  myself  upon  it ;  but  at  this  instant,  in  a  mo- 
mentary lull  of  the  wind,  almost  by  my  side  I  heard  a 
sound  that  I  knew  well,  and  had  cause  to  remember — the 
tune  of  the  wild  March  from  Lenore,  set  to  the  same 
words,  sung  by  the  same  voice  as  of  yore. 

My  heart  stood  still  for  a  moment,  then  leaped  on  again. 
Then  a  faint,  sickly  kind  of  dread  overcame  me.  I  thought 
I  was  going  out  of  my  mind — was  wandering  in  some  de- 
lusion, which  took  the  form  of  the  dearest  voice,  and 
sounded  with  its  sound  in  my  ears. 

But  no.  The  melody  did  not  cease.  As  the  beating 
of  my  heart  settled  somewhat  down,  I  still  heard  it — not 
loud,  but  distinct.  Then  the  tune  ceased.  The  voice — 
ah !  there  was  no  mistaking  that,  and  I  trembled  with  the 
joy  that  thrilled  me  as  I  heard  it — conned  over  the  words 
as  if  struck  with  their  weird  appropriateness  to  the  scene, 
which  was  certainly  marked : 

"  Und  das  Gesindel,  husch,  husch,  husch 
Kam  hinten  nachgeprasselt — 
Wie  Wirbehvind  am  Haselbusch 
Durch  diirre  Blatter  rasselt." 

And  Wirbelwind,  the  whirlwind,  played  a  wild  accompani- 
ment to  the  words. 

It  seemed  to  me  that  a  long  time  passed,  during  which 
I  could  not  speak,  but  could  only  stand  with  my  hands 
clasped  over  my  heart,  trying  to  steady  its  tumultuous 
beating.  I  had  not  been  wrong,  thank  the  good  God 
above !  I  had  not  been  wrong  when  my  heart  sang  for 
joy  at  being  once  more  in  this  land.  He  was  here — he 
was  living — he  was  safe  ! 

Here  were  all  my  worst  fears  soothed — my  intensest 
longings  answered  without  my  having  spoken.  It  was 
now  first  that  I  really  knew  how  much  I  loved  him — so 
much  that  I  felt  almost  afraid  of  the  strength  of  the  pas- 
sion. I  knew  not  till  now  how  it  had  grown — how  vast 
and  all-dominating  it  had  become. 

A  sob  broke  from  my  lips,  and  his  voice  was  silenced. 

"  Herr  Courvoisier ! "  I  stammered. 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  351 

"  Who  spoke  ?  "  he  asked  in  a  clear  voice. 

"It  is  you  !  "  I  murmured. 

"  May  ! "  he  uttered,  and  paused  abruptly. 

A  hand  touched  mine — warm,  firm,  strong — his  very 
hand.  In  its  lightest  touch  there  seemed  safety,  shelter, 
comfort. 

"  Oh,  how  glad  I  am !  how  glad  I  am ! "  I  sobbed.        J 

He  murmured  " Sonderbar  J '"  as  if  arguing  with  him- 
self, and  I  held  his  hand  fast. 

"  Don't  leave  me !     Stay  here ! "  I  implored. 

"  I  suppose  there  is  not  much  choice  about  that  for  either 
of  us,"  said  he,  and  he  laughed. 

I  did  not  remember  to  wonder  how  he  came  there;  I 
only  knew  he  was  there.  That  tempest,  which  will  not 
soon  be  forgotten  in  Elberthal,  subsided  almost  as  rapidly 
as  it  had  arisen.  The  winds  lulled  as  if  a  wizard  had  bid- 
den them  be  still.  The  gale  hurried  on  to  devastate  fresh 
fields  and  pastures  new.  There  was  a  sudden  reaction  of 
stillness,  and  I  began  to  see  in  the  darkness  the  outlines 
of  a  figure  beside  me.  I  looked  up.  There  was  no  longer 
that  hideous,  driving  black  mist,  like  chaos  embodied,  be- 
tween me  and  heaven.  The  sky,  though  dark,  was  clear; 
some  stars  were  gleaming  coldly  down  upon  the  havoc 
which  had  taken  place  since  they  last  viewed  the  scene. 

Seeing  the  heavens  so  calm  and  serene,  a  sudden  feel- 
ing of  shyness  and  terror  overtook  me.  I  tried  to  with- 
draw my  hand  from  that  of  m'y  companion,  and  to  re- 
move myself  a  little  from  him.  He  held  my  hand  fast. 

"You  are  exhausted  with  standing?"  said  he.  "Sit 
down  upon  this  ledge." 

"If  you  will  too." 

"  Oh,  of  course.  I  think  our  voyage  will  be  a  long  one, 
and — " 

"  Speak  German  ! "  said  I.  "  Let  me  hear  you  speaking 
it  again." 

"And  I  have  no  mind  to  stand  all  the  time,"  he  con- 
cluded in  his  own  tongue. 

"  Is  there  no  one  else  here  but  ourselves  ?" 

"  No  one." 

]  had  seated  myself  and  he  placed  himself  beside  me. 


352 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


I  was  in  no  laughing  mood  or  I  might  have  found  some- 
thing ludicrous  in  our  situation. 

"  I  wonder  where  we  are  now,"  I  half  whispered,  as  the 
bridge  was  still  hurried  ceaselessly  down  the  dark  and 
rushing  river.  I  dared  not  allude  to  anything  else.  I  felt 
my  heart  too  full — I  felt  too,  too  utterly  uncertain  of  him. 
There  was  sadness  in  his  voice.  I,  who  knew  its  every 
cadence,  could  hear  that. 

"  I  think  we  are  about  passing  Kaiserswerth,"  said  he. 
"  I  wonder  where  we  shall  land  at  last." 

"  Do  you  think  we  shall  go  very  far  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  we  may.  It  is  on  record  that  the  Elberthal 
Boat  Bridge — part  of  it  I  mean — once  turned  up  at  Rot- 
terdam. It  may  happen  again,  warum  nicht  ? 

"  How  long  does  that  take  ?" 

"Twelve  or  fourteen  hours,  I  dare  say." 

I  was  silent. 

"  I  am  sorry  for  you,"  he  said  in  the  gentlest  of  voices, 
as  he  happed  my  shawl  more  closely  around  me.  "And 
you  are  cold  too — shivering.  My  coat  must  do  duty 
again." 

"  No,  no  /"  cried  I.     "Keep  it !     I  won't  have  it." 

"  Yes  you  will,  because  you  can't  help  it  if  I  make  you," 
he  answered  as  he  wrapped  it  round  me. 

"Well,  please  take  part  of  it.  At  least  wrap  half  of  it 
round  you,"  I  implored,  "  or  I  shall  be  miserable." 

"  Pray  don't.  No,  keep  it !  It  is  not  like  charity — it 
has  not  room  for  many  sins  at  once." 

"  Do  you  mean  you  or  me  ?  "  1  could  not  help  asking. 

"Are  we  not  all  sinners?" 

I  knew  it  would  be  futile  to  resist,  but  I  was  not  happy 
in  the  new  arrangement,  and  I  touched  his  coat-sleeve 
timidly. 

"You  have  quite  a  thin  coat,"  I  remonstrated,  "and  I 
have  a  winter  dress,  a  thick  jacket,  and  a  shawl." 

"And  my  coat,  und  dock  bist  du — oh,  pardon  !  and  you 
are  shivering  in  spite  of  it,"  said  he,  conclusively. 

"It  is  an  awful  storm,  is  it  not  ?  "  I  suggested  next. 

"  Was  an  awful  storm,  ?iicht  wahr  ?  Yes.  And  how 
very  strange  that  you  and  I,  of  all  people,  should  have 
met  here,  of  all  places.  How  did  you  get  here  ?  " 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  353 

"  I  had  been  to  church." 

"  So !     I  had  not." 

"  How  did  you  come  here  ?  "  I  ventured  to  ask. 

"Yes — you  may  well  ask;  but  first — you  have  been  in 
England,  have  you  not  ?  " 

"Yes,  and  am  going  back  again." 

"  Well — I  came  here  yesterday  from  Berlin.  When  the 
war  was  over — " 

"  Ah,  you  were  in  the  war  ?  "  I  gasped. 

"  Natiirlich,  mein  Fraulein.  Where  else  should  I  have 
been  ?  " 

"  And  you  fought  ?  " 

"Also  natiirlich." 

"  Where  did  you  fight  ?     At  Sedan  ?  " 

"At  Sedan — yes." 

"Oh,  my  God!"  I  whispered  to  myself.  "And  were 
you  wounded  ?  "  I  added  aloud. 

"  A  mere  trifle.  Friedhelm  and  I  had  the  luck  to  march 
side  by  side.  I  learned  to  know  in  spirit  and  in  letter  the 
meaning  of  Ich  hatf  einen  guteti  Cameraden." 

"You  were  wounded!"  I  repeated,  unheeding  all  that 
discursiveness.  "  Where  ?  How  ?  Were  you  in  hos- 
pital?" 

"  Yes.  Oh,  it  is  nothing.  Since  then  I  have  been 
learning  my  true  place  in  the  world,  for  you  see,  unluckily, 
I  was  not  killed." 

"  Thank  God  !  Thank  God  !  How  I  have  wondered ! 
How  I  have  thought — well,  how  did  you  come  here  ?  " 

"  I  cweted  a  place  in  one  of  those  graves,  and  couldn't 
have  it,"  he  said,  bitterly.  "  It  was  a  little  thing  to  be 
denied,  but  fallen  men  must  do  without  much.  I  saw 
boys  falling  around  me,  whose  mothers  and  sisters  are 
mourning  for  them  yet." 

"  Oh,  don't." 

"Well — Friedel  and  I  are  working  in  Berlin.  We 
shall  not  stay  there  long  ;  we  are  wanderers  now !  There 
is  no  room  for  us.  I  have  a  short  holiday,  and  I  came 
to  spend  it  at  Elberthal.  This  evening  I  set  out,  intend- 
ing to  hear  the  opera — Der  Fliegende  Hollander — very 
appropriate,  wasn't  it  ?  " 
23 


354 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


"Very!" 

"  But  the  storm  burst  over  the  theatre  just  as  the  per- 
formance was  about  to  begin,  and  removed  part  of  the 
roof,  upon  which  one  of  the  company  came  before  the 
curtain  and  dismissed  us  with  his  blessing  and  the  an- 
nouncement that  no  play  would  be  played  to-night.  Thus 
I  was  deprived  of  the  ungodly  pleasure  of  watching  my 
old  companions  wrestle  with  Wagner's  stormy  music 
while  I  looked  on  like  a  gentleman." 

"But  when  you  came  out  of  the  theatre?" 

"When  I  came  out  of  the  theatre  the  storm  was  so 
magnificent,  and  was  telling  me  so  much  that  I  resolved 
to  come  down  to  its  centre-point  and  see  Vater  Rhcin  in 
one  of  his  grandest  furies.  I  strayed  upon  the  bridge  of 
boats ;  forgot  where  I  was,  listened  only  to  the  storm ;  ere 
I  knew  what  was  happening  I  was  adrift  and  the  tempest 
howling  round  me — and  you,  fresh  from  your  devotions 
to  lull  it." 

"  Are  you  going  to  stay  long  in  Elberthal  ?  " 

"  It  seems  I  may  not.  I  am  driven  away  by  storms  and 
tempests." 

"  And  me  with  you,"  thought  I.  "Perhaps  there  is  some 
meaning  in  this.  Perhaps  Fate  means  us  to  breast  other 
storms  together.  If  so,  I  am  ready — anything — so  it  be 
with  you'1 

"  There's  the  moon,"  said  he ;  "  how  brilliant,  is  she 
not?" 

I  looked  up  into  the  sky  wherein  she  had  indeed  ap- 
peared "  like  a  dying  lady,  lean  and  pale,"  shining  cold 
and  drear,  but  very  clearly  upon  the  swollen  waters, 
showing  us  dim  outlines  of  half-submerged  trees,  cottages 
and  hedges — showing  us  that  we  were  in  mid-stream,  and 
that  other  pieces  of  wreck  were  floating  down  the  river 
with  us,  hurrying  rapidly  with  the  current — showing  me, 
too,  in  a  ghostly  whiteness,  the  face  of  my  companion 
turned  towards  rne,  and  his  elbow  rested  on  his  knee  and 
his  chin  in  his  hand,  and  his  loose  dark  hair  was  blown 
back  from  his  broad  forehead  ;  his  strange,  deep  eyes  were 
resting  upon  my  face,  calmly,  openly. 

Under  that  gaze  my  heart  fell.     In  former  days  there 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  3SS 

had  been  in  his  face  something  not  unakin  to  this  stormy, 
free  night;  but  now  it  was  changed — how  changed! 

A  year  had  wrought  a  terrible  alteration.  I  knew  not 
his  past ;  but  I  did  know  that  he  had  long  been  strug- 
gling, and  a  dread  fear  seized  me  that  the  struggle  was 
growing  too  hard  for  him — his  spirit  was  breaking.  It 
was  not  only  that  the  shadows  were  broader,  deeper,  more 
permanently  sealed — there  was  a  down  look — a  hardness 
and  bitterness  which  inspired  me  both  with  pity  and  fear. 

"Your  fate  is  a  perverse  one,"  he  remarked,  as  I  did 
not  speak. 

"So!     Why?" 

"  It  throws  you  so  provokingly  into  society  which  must 
be  so  unpleasant  to  you." 

"Whose  society?" 

"  Mine,  naturally." 

"You  are  much  mistaken,"  said  I,  composedly. 

"  It  is  kind  of  you  to  say  so.  For  your  sake,  I  wish  it 
had  been  any  one  but  myself  who  had  been  thus  thrown 
together  with  you.  I  promise  you  faithfully  that  as  soon 
as  ever  we  can  land  I  will  only  wait  to  see  you  safely  into 
a  train  and  then  I  will  leave  you  and — " 

He  was  suddenly  silenced.  I  had  composed  my  face 
to  an  expression  of  indifference  as  stony  as  I  knew  how 
to  assume,  and  with  my  hands  folded  in  my  lap,  had 
steeled  myself  to  look  into  his  face  and  listen  to  him. 

I  could  find  nothing  but  a  kind  of  careless  mockery  in 
his  face — a  hard  half-smile  upon  his  lips  as  he  went  on 
saying  the  hard  things  which  cut  home  and  left  me  quiver- 
ing, and  which  he  yet  uttered  as  if  they  had  been  the 
most  harmless  pleasantries  or  the  merest  whipped-cream 
compliments. 

It  was  at  this  moment  that  the  wind,  rising  again  in  a 
brief  spasm,  blew  a  tress  of  my  loosened  hair  across  his 
face.  How  it  changed  !  flushed  crimson.  His  lips  parted 
— a  strange,  sudden  light  came  into  his  eyes. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon ! "  said  I,  hastily,  started  from  my 
assumed  composure,  as  I  raised  my  hand  to  push  my  hair 
back.  But  he  had  gathered  the  tress  together — his  hand 
lingered  for  one  moment — a  scarcely  perceptible  moment 
— upon  it,  then  he  laid  it  gently  down  ^pon  my  shoulder. 


356 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


"Then  I  will  leave  you,"  he  went  on,  resuming  the  old 
manner,  but  with  evident  effort,  "  and  not  interfere  with 
you  any  more." 

What  was  I  to  think  ?  What  to  believe  ?  I  thought 
to  myself  that  had  he  been  my  lover  and  I  had  intercept- 
ed such  a  glance  of  his  to  another  woman  my  peace  of 
mind  had  been  gone  for  evermore.  But,  on  the  other 
hand,  every  cool  word  he  said  gave  the  lie  to  his  looks — 
or  did  his  looks  give  the  lie  to  his  words  ?  Oh  that  I 
could  solve  the  problem  once  for  all,  and  have  done  with 
it  forever ! 

"And  you,  Miss  Wedderburn — have  you  deserted  Ger- 
many ?" 

"I  have  been  obliged  to  live  in  England,  if  that  is 
what  you  mean — I  am  living  in  Germany  at  present." 

"  And  Art — die  Kunst — that  is  cruel ! " 

"  You  are  amusing  yourself  at  my  expense,  as  you  have 
always  delighted  in  doing,"  said  I,  sharply,  cut  to  the 
quick. 

"Aber,  Frdulein  May  !     What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  From  the  very  first,"  I  repeated,  the  pain  I  felt  giving 
a  keenness  to  my  reproaches.  "  Did  you  not  deceive  me 
and  draw  me  out  for  your  amusement  that  day  we  met  at 
Koln  ?  You  found  out  then,  I  suppose,  what  a  stupid, 
silly  creature  I  was,  and  you  have  repeated  the  process 
now  and  then,  since — much  to  your  own  edification  and 
that  of  Herr  Helfen,  I  do  not  doubt.  Whether  it  was 
just,  or  honorable,  or  kind,  is  a  secondary  consideration. 
Stupid  people  are  only  invented  for  the  amusement  of 
those  who  are  not  stupid." 

"  How  dare  you,  how  dare  you  talk  in  that  manner  ?  " 
said  he,  emphatically,  laying  his  hand  upon  my  shoulder, 
and  somehow  compelling  my  gaze  to  meet  his.  "But  I 
know  why — I  read  the  answer  in  those  eyes  which  dare 
everything,  and  yet — " 

"Not  quite  everything,"  thought  I,  uncomfortably,  as 
the  said  eyes  sank  beneath  his  look. 

"Fraulein  May,  will  you  have  the  patience  to  listen 
while  I  tell  you  a  little  story  ?  " 

"  Oh  yes ! "  I  responded,  readily,  as  I  hailed  the  pros- 
pect of  learning  something  more  about  him. 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


357 


"  It  is  now  nearly  five  years  since  I  first  came  to  Elber- 
thal.  I  had  never  been  in  the  town  before.  I  came  with 
my  boy — may  God  bless  him  and  keep  him  ! — who  was 
then  two  years  old,  and  whose  mother  was  dead — for  my 
wife  died  early." 

A  pause,  during  which  I  did  not  speak.  It  was  some- 
thing so  wonderful  to  me  that  he  should  speak  to  me  of 
his  wife. 

"She  was  young — and  very  beautiful,"  said  he.  "You 
will  forgive  my  introducing  the  subject?" 

"Oh,  Herr  Courvoisier ! " 

"And  I  had  wronged  her.  I  came  to  Friedhelm  Hel- 
fen,  or  rather  was  sent  to  him,  and,  as  it  happened,  found 
such  a  friend  as  is  not  granted  to  one  man  in  a  thousand 
When  I  came  here,  I  was  smarting  under  various  griefs; 
about  the  worst  was  that  I  had  recklessly  destroyed  my 
own  prospects.  I  had  a  good  career — a  fair  future  open 
to  me.  I  had  cut  short  that  career,  annihilated  that  fut- 
ure, or  any  future  worth  speaking  of,  by — well,  something 
had  happened  which  divided  me  utterly  and  uncompro- 
misingly and  forever  from  the  friends,  and  the  sphere,  and 
the  respect  and  affection  of  those  who  had  been  parents 
and  brother  and  sister  to  me.  Then  I  knew  that  their 
good  opinion,  their  love,  was  my  law  and  my  highest 
desire.  And  it  was  not  their  fault — it  was  mine — my  very 
own. 

"  The  more  I  look  back  upon  it  all,  the  more  I  see  that 
I  have  myself  to  thank  for  it.  But  that  reflection,  as  you 
may  suppose,  does  not  add  to  the  delights  of  a  man's 
position  when  he  is  humbled  to  the  dust  as  I  was  then. 
Biting  the  dust — you  have  that  phrase  in  English.  Well, 
I  have  been  biting  the  dust — yes,  eating  it,  living  upon  it, 
and  deservedly  so,  for  five  years ;  but  nothing  ever  can, 
nothing  ever  will,  make  it  taste  anything  but  dry,  bitter, 
nauseating  to  the  last  degree." 

"  Go  on  ! "  said  I,  breathlessly. 

"  How  kind  you  are  to  listen  to  the  dull  tale !  Well,  I 
had  my  boy  Sigmund,  and  there  were  times  when  the 
mere  fact  that  he  was  mine  made  me  forget  everything 
else,  and  thank  my  fate  for  the  simple  fact  that  I  lived  and 


358 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


was  his  father.  His  father — he  was  a  part  of  myself,  he 
could  divine  my  every  thought.  But  at  other  times,  gen- 
erally indeed,  I  was  sick  of  life — that  life.  Don't  suppose 
that  I  am  one  of  those  high-flown  idiots  who  would  make 
it  out  that  no  life  is  worth  living :  I  knew  and  felt  to  my 
soul  that  the  life  from  which  I  had  locked  myself  out  and 
then  dropped  the  key  as  it  were  here  in  mid-stream,  was 
a  glorious  life,  worth  living  ten  times  over. 

"There  was  the  sting  of  it.  For  three  years  I  lived 
thus,  and  learned  a  great  deal,  learned  what  men  in  that  po- 
sition are — learned  to  respect,  admire,  and  love  some  of 
them — learned  to  understand  that  man — der  Mensch — is 
the  same,  and  equally  to  be  honored  everywhere.  I  also 
tried  to  grow  accustomed  to  the  thought,  which  grew  every 
day  more  certain  to  me,  that  I  must  live  on  so  for  the  fut- 
ure— to  plan  my  life,  and  shape  out  a  certain  kind  of  re- 
pentance for  sins  past.  I  decided  that  the  only  form  my 
atonement  could  take  was  that  of  self-effacement — " 

"  That  is  why  you  never  would  take  the  lead  in  any- 
thing." 

"  Exactly.  I  am  naturally  fond  of  leading.  I  love  be- 
yond everything  to  lead  those  who  I  know  like  me,  and 
like  following  me.  When  I  was  Haupt — I  mean,  I  knew 
that  all  that  bygone  mischief  had  arisen  from  doing  what 
I  liked,  so  I  dropped  doing  what  I  liked,  and  began  to  do 
what  I  disliked.  By  the  time  I  had  begun  to  get  a  little 
into  training,  three  years  had  passed — these  things  are  not 
accomplished  in  a  day,  and  the  effects  of  twenty-seven 
years  of  selfishness  are  not  killed  soon.  I  was  killing 
them,  and  becoming  a  machine  in  the  process. 

"One  year  the  Lower  Rhenish  Musik-fest  was  to  be 
held  at  Koln.  Long  before  it  came  off  the  Cologne  or- 
chestra had  sent  to  us  for  contingents,  and  we  had  begun 
to  attend  some  of  the  Probeu  regularly  once  or  twice  a 
week. 

"  One  day  Friedhelm  and  I  had  been  at  a  Probe.  The 
Tower  of  Babel  and  the  Lenore  Symphony  were  amongst 
the  things  we  had  practiced.  Both  of  them,  the  Ig- 
nore particularly,  had  got  into  my  head.  I  broke  loose 
for  one  day  from  routine,  from  drudgery  and  harness.  It 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  259 

was  a  mistake.  Friedhelm  went  off,  shrugging  his  dear 
old  shoulders,  and  I  at  last  turned  up,  mooning  at  the 
Ko'lner  Bahnhof.  Well — you  know  the  rest.  Nay,  do 
not  turn  so  angrily  away.  Try  to  forgive  a  fallen  man 
one  little  indiscretion.  When  I  saw  you  I  cannot  tell 
what  feeling  stole  warm  and  invigorating  into  my  heart; 
it  was  something  quite  new — something  I  had  never  felt 
before:  it  was  so  sweet  that  1  could  not  part  with  it. 
Fraulein  May,  I  have  lived  that  afternoon  over  again 
many  and  many  a  time.  Have  you  ever  given  a  thought 
to  it?" 

"Yes,  I  have,"  said  I,  dryly. 

"  My  conduct  after  that  arose  half  from  pride — wounded 
pride,  I  mean,  for  when  you  cut  me,  it  did  cut  me — I  own 
it.  Partly  it  arose  from  a  worthier  feeling — the  feeling 
that  I  could  not  see  very  much  of  you  or  learn  to  know 
you  at  all  well  without  falling  very  deeply  in  love  with 
you.  You  hide  your  face — you  are  angry  at  that — " 

"Stop!  Did  you  never  throughout  all  this  give  a 
thought  to  the  possibility  that  /  might  fall  in  love  with 
you  ?  " 

I  did  not  look  at  him,  but  he  said,  after  a  pause : 

"  I  had  the  feeling  that  if  I  tried  I  could  win  your  love. 
I  never  was  such  a  presumptuous  fool  as  to  suppose  that 
you  would  love  me  unasked — or  even  with  much  asking 
on  my  part — bewahre  /  " 

I  was  silent,  still  concealing  my  face.     He  went  on : 

"Besides,  I  knew  that  you  were  an  English  lady.  I 
asked  myself  what  was  the  right  thing  to  do,  and  I  de- 
cided that  though  you  would  consider  me  an  ill-mannered, 
churlish  clown,  I  would  refuse  those  gracious,  charming 
advances  which  you  in  your  chanty  made.  Our  paths  in 
life  were  destined  to  be  utterly  apart  and  divided,  and 
what  could  it  matter  to  you — the  behavior  of  an  insignifi- 
cant fiddler?  You  would  forget  him  just  when  he  de- 
served to  be  forgotten,  that  is — instantly. 

"Time  went  on.  You  lived  near  us.  Changes  took 
place.  Those  who  had  a  right  to  arbitrate  for  me,  since 
I  had  by  my  own  deed  deprived  myself  of  that  right, 
wrote  and  demanded  my  son.  I  had  shown  myself  in- 


36o  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

capable  of  managing  my  own  affairs— was  it  likely  that  I 
could  arrange  his  ?  And  then  he  was  better  away  from 
such  a  black  sheep.  It  is  true.  The  black  sheep  gave  up 
the  white  lambling  into  the  care  of  a  legitimate  shepherd, 
who  carried  it  off  to  a  correct  and  appropriate  fold.  Then 
life  was  empty  indeed,  for,  strange  though  it  may  seem, 
even  black  sheep  have  feelings — ridiculously  out  of  place 
they  are,  too." 

"  Oh,  don't  speak  so  hardly ! "  said  I,  tremulously,  laying 
my  hand  for  an  instant  upon  his. 

His  face  was  turned  towards  me;  his  mien  was  severe, 
but  serene ;  he  spoke  as  of  some  far-past,  distant  dream. 

"Then  it  was  that  in  looking  round  my  darkened  hori- 
zon for  Sigmund,  I  found  that  it  was  not  empty.  You 
rose  trembling  upon  it  like  a  star  of  light,  and  how  beau- 
tiful a  star !  But  there !  do  not  turn  away.  I  will  not 
shock  you  by  expatiating  upon  it.  Enough  that  I  found 
what  I  had  more  than  once  suspected — that  I  loved  you. 
Once  or  twice  I  nearly  made  a  fool  of  myself;  that  Car- 
nival Monday — do  you  remember  ?  Luckily  Friedel  and 
Karl  came  in,  but  in  my  saner  moments  I  worshiped  you 
as  a  noble,  distant  good — part  of  the  beautiful  life  which 
I  had  gambled  with — and  lost.  Be  easy !  I  never  for 
one  instant  aspired  to  you — never  thought  of  possessing 
you :  I  was  not  quite  mad.  I  am  only  telling  you  this  to 
explain,  and — " 

"And  you  renounced  me  ?"  said  I  in  a  low  voice. 

"I  renounced  you." 

I  removed  my  hand  from  my  eyes,  and  looked  at  him. 
His  eyes,  dry  and  calm,  rested  upon  my  face.  His  coun- 
tenance was  pale;  his  mouth  set  with  a  grave,  steady 
sweetness. 

Light  rushed  in  upon  my  mind  in  a  radiant  flood — light 
and  knowledge.  I  knew  what  was  right;  an  unerring  rin- 
ger pointed  it  to  me.  I  looked  deep,  deep  into  his  sad 
eyes,  read  his  innermost  sou],  and  found  it  pure. 

"They  say  you  have  committed  a  crime,"  said  I. 

"And  I  have  not  denied,  cannot  deny  it,"  he  answered, 
as  if  waiting  for  something  further. 

"You  need  not,"  said  I.     "It  is  all  one  to  me.     I  want 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


361 


to  hear  no  more  about  that.  I  want  to  know  if  your 
heart  is  mine." 

The  wind  wuthered  wearily;  the  water  rushed.  Strange, 
inarticulate  sounds  of  the  night  came  fitfully  across  ear 
and  sense,  as  he  answered  me  : 

"  Yours  and  my  honor's.     What  then  ?  " 

"This,"  I  answered,  stooping,  sweeping  the  loose  hair 
from  that  broad,  sad  forehead,  and  pressing  my  lips  upon 
it.  "This  :  accept  the  gift  or  reject  it.  As  your  heart  is 
mine,  so  mine  is  yours — forever  and  ever." 

A  momentary  silence  as  I  raised  myself,  trembling,  and 
stood  aside ;  and  the  water  rushed,  and  the  storm-birds 
on  untiring  wing  beat  the  sky  and  croaked  of  the  gale. 

Then  he  drew  me  to  him,  folded  me  to  his  breast  with- 
out speaking,  and  gave  me  a  long,  tender,  yearning  kiss, 
with  unspeakable  love,  little  passion  in  it,  fit  seal  of  a  love 
that  was  deeper  and  sadder  than  it  was  triumphant. 

"Let  me  have  a  few  moments  of  this,"  said  he,  "just  a 
few  moments,  May.  Let  me  believe  that  I  may  hold  you 
to  your  noble,  pitying  words.  Then  I  shall  be  my  own 
master  again." 

Ignoring  this  hint,  I  laid  my  hands  upon  his  arm,  and 
eying  him  steadily,  went  on  : 

"But  understand,  the  man  I  love  must  not  be  my 
servant.  If  you  want  to  keep  me  you  must  be  the  master ; 
I  brook  no  feeble  curb ;  no  weak  hand  can  hold  me. 
You  must  rule,  or  I  shall  rebel ;  you  must  show  the 
way,  for  I  don't  know  it.  I  don't  know  whether  you 
understand  what  you  have  undertaken." 

"  My  clear,  you  are  excited.  Your  generosity  carries 
you  away,  and  your  divine,  womanly  pity  and  kindness. 
You  speak  without  thinking.  You  will  repent  to-morrow." 

"That  is  not  kind  nor  worthy  of  you,"  said  I.  "I  have 
thought  about  it  for  sixteen  months,  and  the  end  of  my 
thought  has  always  been  the  same :  I  love  Eugen  Cour- 
voisier,  and  if  he  had  loved  me  I  should  have  been  a  hap- 
py woman,  and  if— though  I  thought  it  too  good  to  be 
true,  you  know — if  he  ever  should  tell  me  so,  nothing  in 
this  world  shall  make  me  spoil  our  two  lives  by  cowardice. 
I  will  hold  to  him  against  the  whole  world." 


362  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

"It  is  impossible,  May,"  he  said,  quietly,  after  a  pause 
"I  wish  you  had  never  seen  me." 

"It  is  only  impossible  if  you  make  it  so." 

"  My  sin  found  me  out  even  here,  in  this  quiet  place, 
where  I  knew  no  one.  It  will  find  me  out  again.  You 
— if  ever  you  were  married  to  me — would  be  pointed  out 
as  the  wife  of  a  man  who  had  disgraced  his  honor  in  the 
blackest,  foulest  way.  I  must  and  will  live  it  out  alone." 

"You  shall  not  live  it  out  alone,"  I  said. 

The  idea  that  I  could  not  stand  by  him — the  fact  that 
he  was  not  prosperous,  not  stainless  before  the  world — 
that  mine  would  be  no  ordinary  flourishing,  meaningless 
marriage,  in  which  "  for  better,  for  worse,"  signifies  nothing 
but  better,  no  worse — all  this  poured  strength  on  strength 
into  my  heart,  and  seemed  to  warm  it  and  do  it  good. 

"I  will  tell  you  your  duty,"  said  he.  "Your  duty  is  to 
go  home  and  forget  me.  In  due  time  some  one  else  will 
find  the  loveliest  and  dearest  being  in  the  world — " 

"  Eugen  !  Eugen ! "  I  cried,  stabbed  to  the  quick. 
"How  can  you ?  You  cannot  love  me,  or  you  could  not 
coldly  turn  me  over  to  some  other  man,  some  abstrac- 
tion— " 

"  Perhaps  if  he  were  not  an  abstraction  I  might  not  be 
able  to  do  it,"  he  said,  suddenly  clasping  me  to  him  with 
a  jealous  movement.  "No;  I  am  sure  I  should  not  be 
able  to  do  it.  Nevertheless,  while  he  yet  is  an  abstraction, 
and  because  of  that,  I  say,  leave  me ! " 

"  Eugen,  I  do  not  love  lightly ! "  I  began  with  forced 
calm.  "  I  do  not  love  twice.  My  love  for  you — is  not  a 
mere  fancy — I  fought  against  it  with  all  my  strength ;  it 
mastered  me  in  spite  of  myself — now  I  cannot  tear  it 
away.  If  you  send  me  away  it  will  be  barbarous ;  away 
to  be  alone,  to  England  again,  when  I  love  you  with  my 
whole  soul.  No  one  but  a  man — no  one  but  you  could 
have  said  such  a  thing.  If  you  do,"  I  added,  terror  at  the 
prospect  overcoming  me,  "if  you  do  I  shall  die — I  shall 
die." 

I  could  command  myself  no  longer,  but  sobbed  aloud. 

"You  will  have  to  answer  for  it,"  I  repeated;  "but 
you  will  not  send  me  away." 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  363 

"  What,  in  heaven's  name,  makes  you  love  me  so  ?"  he 
asked,  as  if  lost  in  wonder. 

"  I  don't  know.  I  cannot  imagine,"  said  I,  with  happy 
politeness.  "  It  is  no  fault  of  mine."  I  took  his  hand  in 
mine.  "  Eugen,  look  at  me."  His  eyes  met  mine.  They 
brightened  as  he  looked  at  me.  "  That  crime  of  which 
you  were  accused — you  did  not  do  it." 

Silence. 

"  Look  at  me  and  say  that  you  did,"  I  continued. 

Silence  still. 

"  Friedheltn  Helfen  always  said  you  had  not  done  it. 
He  was  more  loyal  than  I,"  said  I,  contritely ;  "  but,"  I 
added,  jealously,  "  he  did  not  love  you  better  than  I,  for  I 
loved  you  all  the  same  even  though  I  almost  believed  you 
had  done  it.  Well,  that  is  an  easy  secret  to  keep,  because 
it  is  to  your  credit." 

"That  is  just  what  makes  it  hard.  If  it  were  true,  one 
would  be  anxious  rather  than  not  to  conceal  it;  but  as  it 
is  not  true,  don't  you  see  ?  Whenever  you  see  me  suspect- 
ed, it  will  be  the  impulse  of  your  loyal,  impetuous  heart  to 
silence  the  offender,  and  tell  him  he  lies." 

In  my  haste  I  had  not  seen  this  aspect  of  the  question. 
It  was  quite  a  new  idea  to  me.  Yes,  I  began  to  see  in 
truer  proportions  the  kind  of  suffering  he  had  suffered,  the 
kind  of  trials  he  had  gone  through,  and  my  breath  failed 
at  the  idea.  When  they  pointed  at  him  I  must  not  say, 
"  It  is  a  lie ;  he  is  as  honest  as  you."  It  was  a  solemn 
prospect.  It  overpowered  me. 

"  You  quail  before  that  ?  "  said  he,  gently,  after  a  pause. 

"No;  I  realize  it.  I  do  not  quail  before  it,"  said  I, 
firmly.  "  But,"  I  added,  looking  at  him  with  a  new  ele- 
ment in  my  glance — that  of  awe — "do  you  mean  that  for 
five  years  you  have  effaced  yourself  thus,  knowing  all  the 
while  that  you  were  not  guilty  ?" 

"It  was  a  matter  of  the  clearest  duty — and  honor,"  he 
replied,  flushing  and  looking  somewhat  embarrassed. 

"Of  duty!"  I  cried,  strangely  moved.  "If  you  did 
not  do  it,  who  did  ?  Why  are  you  silent  ?  " 

Our  eyes  met.  I  shall  never  forget  that  glance.  It 
had  the  concentrated  patience,  love  and  pride  and  loyalty, 
of  all  the  years  of  suffering  past  and — to  come. 


364  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

"  May,  that  is  the  test  for  you !  That  is  what  I  shrink 
from  exposing  you  to,  what  I  know  it  is  wrong  to  expose 
you  to.  I  cannot  tell  you.  No  one  knows  but  I,  and  I 
shall  never  tell  any  one,  not  even  you,  if  you  become  my 
other  self  and  soul  and  thought.  Now  you  know  all." 

He  was  silent. 

"So  that  is  the  truth  ?"  said  I.  "Thank  you  for  telling 
it  to  me.  I  always  thought  you  were  a  hero ;  now  I  am 
sure  of  it.  Oh,  Eugen  !  how  I  do  love  you  for  this  !  And 
you  need  not  be  afraid.  I  have  been  learning  to  keep 
secrets  lately.  I  shall  help,  not  hinder  you.  Eugen,  we 
will  live  it  down  together." 

At  last  we  understood  each  other.  At  last  our  hands 
clasped  and  our  lips  met  upon  the  perfect  union  of  feeling 
and  purpose  for  all  our  future  lives.  All  was  clear  be- 
tween us,  bright,  calm ;  and  /,  at  least,  was  supremely 
happy.  How  little  my  past  looked  now;  how  petty  and 
insignificant  all  my  former  hopes  and  fears  ! 


Dawn  was  breaking  over  the  river.  Wild  and  storm- 
beaten  was  the  scene  on  which  we  looked.  A  huge  waste 
of  swollen  waters  around  us,  devastated  villages,  great 
piles  of  wreck  on  all  sides;  a  watery  sun  casting  pallid 
beams  upon  the  swollen  river.  We  were  sailing  Holland- 
wards  upon  a  fragment  of  the  bridge,  and  in  the  distance 
were  the  spires  and  towers  of  a  town  gleaming  in  the 
sickly  sun-rays.  I  stood  up  and  gazed  towards  that  town, 
and  he  stood  by  my  side,  his  arm  round  my  waist.  My 
chief  wish  was  that  our  sail  could  go  on  forever. 

"  Do  you  know  what  is  ringing  in  my  ears,  and  will  not 
leave  my  mind  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Indeed,  no !     You  are  a  riddle  and  a  mystery  to  me." 

I  hummed  the  splendid  air  from  the  Choral  Symphony, 
the  motif  of  the  music  to  the  choruses  to  "  Joy  "  which 
follow. 

"Ah!"  said  he,  taking  up  its  deep,  solemn  gladness, 
"  you  are  right,  Ma}' — quite  right.  There  is  a  joy,  if  it 
be  'beyond  the  starry  belt'." 

"  I  wonder  what  that  town  is  ?  "  I  said,  after  a  pause. 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


365 


"  I  am  not  sure,  but  I  fancy  it  is  Emmerich.  I  am  sure 
I  hope  so." 

Whatever  the  town,  we  were  floating  straight  towards 
it.  I  suddenly  thought  of  my  dream  long  ago,  and  told 
it  to  him,  adding  : 

"I  think  this  must  have  been  the  floating  wreck  to 
which  you  and  I  seemed  clinging ;  though  I  thought  that 
all  of  the  dream  that  was  going  to  be  fulfilled  had  already 
come  to  pass  on  that  Carnival  Monday  afternoon." 

The  boat  had  got  into  one  of  the  twisting  currents,  and 
was  being  propelled  directly  towards  the  town. 

Eugen  looked  at  me  and  laughed.     I  asked  why. 

"  What  for  a  lark !  as  they  say  in  your  country." 

'•You  are  quite  mistaken.  7  never  heard  such  an  ex- 
pression. But  what  is  such  a  lark  ?  " 

"  We  have  no  hats :  we  want  something  to  eat ;  we  must 
have  tickets  to  get  back  to  Elberthal,  and  I  have  just  two 
thalers  in  my  pocket — oh !  and  a  two-pfennige  piece.  I 
left  my  little  all  behind  me." 

"Hurrah!  At  last  you  will  be  compelled  to  take  back 
that  three  thalers  ten." 

We  both  laughed  at  this  jeu  d'esprit  as  if  it  had  been 
something  exquisitely  witty ;  and  I  forgot  my  dishevelled 
condition  in  watching  the  sun  rise  over  the  broad  river,  in 
feeling  our  noiseless  progression  over  it,  and,  above  all,  in 
the  divine  sense  of  oneness  and  harmony  with  him  at  my 
side — a  feeling  which  I  can  hardly  describe,  utterly  with- 
out the  passionate  fitfulness  of  the  orthodox  lover's  rapture, 
but  as  if  for  a  long  time  I  had  been  waiting  for  some  qual- 
ity to  make  me  complete,  and  had  quietly  waked  to  find 
it  there,  and  the  world  understandable — life's  riddle  read. 

Eugen's  caresses  were  few,  his  words  of  endearment 
quiet ;  but  I  knew  what  they  stood  for ;  a  love  rooted  in 
feelings  deeper  than  those  of  sense,  holier  than  mere 
earthly  love — feelings  which  had  taken  root  in  adversity, 
had  grown  in  darkness  and  "made  a  sunshine  in  a  shady 
place  " — feelings  which  in  him  had  their  full  and  noble 
growth  and  beauty  of  development,  but  which  it  seems 
to  be  the  aim  of  the  fashionable  education  of  this  period 
as  much  as  possible  to  do  away  with — the  feeling  of  chiv- 
alry, delicacy,  reticence,  manliness,  modesty. 


366  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

As  we  drew  nearer  the  town,  he  said  to  me : 

"  In  a  few  hours  we  shall  have  to  part,  May,  for  a  time. 
While  we  are  here  alone,  and  you  are  uninfluenced,  let 
me  ask  you  something.  This  love  of  yours  for  me — what 
will  it  carry  you  through  ?  " 

"  Anything,  now  that  I  am  sure  of  yours  for  me." 

"  In  short,  you  are  firmly  decided  to  be  my  wife  some- 
time ?  " 

"When  you  tell  me  you  are  ready  for  me,"  said  I,  put- 
ting my  hand  in  his. 

"  And  if  I  find  it  best  to  leave  my  Fatherland,  and  be- 
gin life  quite  anew  ?  " 

"  Thy  God  is  my  God,  and  thy  people  are  my  people, 
Eugen." 

"  One  other  thing.  How  do  you  know  that  you  can 
marry  ?  Your  friends — " 

"  I  am  twenty  years  old.  In  a  year  I  can  do  as  I  like," 
said  I,  composedly.  "  Surely  we  can  stand  firm  and  faith- 
ful for  a  year  ?  " 

He  smiled,  and  it  was  a  new  smile — sweet,  hopeful,  if 
not  merry. 

With  this  silent  expression  of  determination  and  trust 
we  settled  the  matter. 


CHAPTER  II. 

"What's  failure  or  success  to  me? 
I  have  subdued  my  life  to  the  one  purpose." 

T^UGEN  sent  a  telegram  from  Emmerich  to  Fran  Mit- 
Ly  tendorf  to  re-assure  her  as  to  my  safety.  At  four  in 
the  afternoon  we  left  that  town,  refreshed  and  re-hatted,  to 
reach  Elberthal  at  six. 

I  told  Eugen  that  we  were  going  away  the  next  day  to 
stay  a  short  time  at  a  place  called  Lahnburg. 

He  started  and  looked  at  me. 

"Lahnburg! — I — when  you  are  there — nein,  das  ist— 
You  are  going  to  Lahnburg  ?  " 

"Yes.     Why  not?" 

"You  will  know  why  I  ask  if  you  go  to  Schloss  Roth- 
enfels." 

"Why?" 

"  I  say  no  more,  dear  May.  I  will  leave  you  to  form 
your  own  conclusions.  I  have  seen  that  this  fair  head 
could  think  wisely  and  well  under  trying  circumstances 
enough.  I  am  rather  glad  that  you  are  going  to  Lahn- 
burg." 

"The  question  is — will  you  still  be  at  Elberthal  when 
I  return  ?  " 

"I  cannot  say.  We  had  better  exchange  addresses.  I 
am  at  Frau  Schmidt's  again — my  old  quarters.  I  do  not 
know  when  or  how  we  shall  meet  again.  I  must  see 
Friedhelm,  and  you — when  you  tell  your  friends,  you  will 
probably  be  separated  at  once  and  completely  from  me." 


368 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


"  Well,  a  year  is  not  much  out  of  our  lives.  Hew  old 
are  you,  Eugen  ?" 

"  Thirty-two.     And  you  ?  " 

"  Twenty  and  two  months :  then  you  are  twelve  years 
older  than  I.  You  were  a  school-boy  when  I  was  born. 
What  were  you  like  ?  " 

"A  regular  little  brute,  I  should  suppose,  as  they  all  are." 

"  When  we  are  married,"  said  I,  "  perhaps  I  may  go  on 
with  my  singing,  and  earn  some  more  money  by  it.  My 
voice  will  be  worth  something  to  me  then." 

"I  thought  you  had  given  up  art." 

"Perhaps  I  shall  see  Adelaide,"  I  added,  "or,  rather, 
I  will  see  her."  I  looked  at  him  rather  inquiringly.  To 
my  relief  he  said : 

"  Have  you  not  seen  her  since  her  marriage  ?  " 

"  No ;  have  you  ?  " 

"She  was  my  angel  nurse  when  I  was  lying  in  hospital 

at .  Did  you  not  know  that  she  has  the  Iron  Cross  ? 

And  no  one  ever  won  it  more  nobly." 

"Adelaide — your  nurse — the  Iron  Cross!"  I  ejaculated. 
"Thenyati  have  seen  her?" 

"Seen  her  shadow  to  bless  it." 

"Do  you  know  where  she  is  now  ?" 

"With  her  husband  at .  She  told  me  that  you 

were  in  England,  and  she  gave  me  this." 

He  handed  me  a  yellow,  much-worn  folded  paper, 
which,  on  opening,  I  discovered  to  be  my  own  letter  to 
Adelaide,  written  during  the  war,  and  which  had  received 
so  curt  an  answer. 

"I  begged  very  hard  for  it,"  said  he,  "and  only  got  it 
with  difficulty,  but  I  represented  that  she  might  get  more 
of  them,  whereas  I — " 

He  stopped,  for  two  reasons.  I  was  weeping  as  I  re- 
turned it  to  him,  and  the  train  rolled  into  the  Elberthal 
station. 

On  my  way  to  Dr.  Mitten dorf's  I  made  up  my  mind 
what  to  do.  I  should  not  speak  to  Stella,  nor  to  any  one 
else  of  what  had  happened,  but  I  should  write  very  soon 
to  my  parents  and  tell  them  the  truth.  I  hoped  they 
would  not  refuse  their  consent,  but  I  feared  they  would. 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN, 


369 


I  should  certainly  not  attempt  to  disobey  them  while  their 
authority  legally  bound  me,  but  as  soon  as  I  was  my  own 
mistress,  I  should  act  upon  my  own  judgment.  I  felt  no 
fear  of  anything;  the  one  fear  of  my  life — the  loss  of  Eu- 
gen — had  been  removed,  and  all  others  dwindled  to  noth- 
ing. My  happiness,  I  am  and  was  well  aware,  was  quite 
set  upon  things  below;  if  I  lost  Eugen  I  lost  everything, 
for  I,  like  him,  and  like  all  those  who  have  been  and  are 
dearest  to  both  of  us,  was  a  Child  of  the  World. 
24 


CHAPTER  III. 

"  Oftmals  hab'  ich  geirrt,  und  habe  mich  wiedergefunden, 
Aber  gliicklicher  nie." 

IT  was  beginning  to  be  dusk  when  we  alighted  the  next 
day  at  Lahnburg,  a  small  wayside  station,  where  the 
doctor's  brand-new  carriage  met  us,  and  after  we  had 
been  bidden  welcome,  whirled  us  off  to  the  doctor's 
brand-new  Schloss,  full  of  brand-new  furniture.  I  skip  it 
all,  the  renewed  greetings,  the  hospitality,  the  noise.  They 
were  very  kind.  It  was  all  right  to  me,  and  I  enjoyed  it 
immensely.  I  was  in  a  state  of  mind  in  which  I  verily 
believe  I  should  have  enjoyed  eating  a  plate  of  porridge 
for  supper,  or  a  dish  of  Sauerkraut  for  dinner. 

The  subject  for  complacency  and  contemplation  in 
Frau  Mittendorfs  life  was  her  intimacy  with  the  Von 
Rothenfels  family,  whose-  great,  dark  old  Schloss,  or, 
rather,  a  portion  of  it,  looking  grimly  over  its  woods,  she 
pointed  out  to  me  from  the  windows  of  her  salon.  I 
looked  somewhat  curiously  at  it,  chiefly  because  Eugen 
had  mentioned  it,  and  also  because  it  was  such  a  stern, 
imposing  old  pile.  It  was  built  of  red  stone,  and  stood 
upon  red  stone  foundations.  Red  were  the  rocks  of  this 
country,  and  hence  its  name,  Rothen-fels,  the  red  rocks. 
Woods,  also  dark,  but  now  ablaze  with  the  last  fiery 
autumn  tints,  billowed  beneath  it;  on  the  other  side,  said 
Frau  Mittendorf,  was  a  great  plateau  covered  with  large 
trees,  intersected  by  long,  straight  avenues.  She  would 
take  us  to  look  at  it;  the  Grafin  von  Rothenfels  was  a 
great  friend  of  hers. 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  27 1 

She  was  entertaining  us  with  stories  to  prove  the  great 
regard  and  respect  of  the  Countess  for  her  (Frau  Mitten- 
dorf )  on  the  morning  after  our  arrival,  while  I  was  long- 
ing to  go  out  and  stroll  along  some  of  those  pleasant 
breezy  upland  roads,  or  explore  the  sleepy,  quaint  old 
town  below. 

Upon  her  narrative  came  an  interruption.  A  servant 
threw  open  the  door  very  wide,  announcing  the  Grafin 
von  Rothenfels.  Frau  Mittendorf  rose  in  a  tremulous 
flurry  and  flutter  to  greet  her  noble  guest,  and  then  intro- 
duced us  to  her. 

A  tall,  melancholy,  meagre-looking  woman,  far  past 
youth — on  the  very  confines  of  middle  age;  with  iron- 
gray  hair  banded  across  a  stern,  much-lined  brow.  Col- 
orless features  of  a  strong,  large,  not  unhandsome  type, 
from  which  all  liveliness  and  vivacity  had  long  since  fled. 
A  stern  mouth — steady,  lustreless,  severe  eyes,  a  dignity — 
yes,  even  a  majesty  of  mien  which  she  did  not  attempt  to 
soften  into  graciousness ;  black,  trailing  draperies ;  a 
haughty  pride  of  movement. 

Such  was  the  first  impression  made  upon  me  by  Hilde- 
garde,  Countess  of  Rothenfels — a  forbidding,  if  grand 
figure — aristocrat  in  every  line ;  utterly  alien  and  apart,  I 
thought,  from  me  and  every  feeling  of  mine. 

But  on  looking  again  the  human  element  was  found  in 
the  deeply-planted  sadness  which  no  reserve  pride  could 
conceal.  Sad  the  eyes,  sad  the  mouth ;  she  was  all  sad 
together — and  not  without  reason,  as  I  afterwards  learned. 

She  was  a  rigid  Roman  Catholic,  and  at  sixteen  had 
been  married  for  les  convenances  to  her  cousin,  Count 
Bruno  von  Rothenfels,  a  man  a  good  deal  older  than  her- 
self, though  not  preposterously  so,  and  whose  ample  pos- 
sessions and  old  name  gave  social  position  of  the  highest 
kind.  But  he  was  a  Protestant  by  education,  a  thinker 
by  nature,  a  rationalist  by  conviction. 

That  was  one  bitter  grief.  Another  was  her  childless- 
ness. She  had  been  married  twenty-four  years  ;  no  child 
had  sprung  from  the  union.  This  was  a  continual  grief 
which  imbittered  her  whole  existence. 

Since  then  I  have  seen  a  portrait  of  her  at  twenty — a 


372 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


splendid  brunette,  with  high  spirit  and  resolute  will  and 
noble  beauty  in  every  line.  Ah  me !  What  wretches  we 
become !  Sadness  and  bitterness,  proud  aloofness  and  a 
yearning  wistfulness  were  subtly  mingled  in  the  demeanor 
of  Grafin  von  Rothenfels. 

She  bowed  to  us,  as  Frau  Mittendorf  introduced  us. 
She  did  not  bestow  a  second  glance  upon  Stella;  but 
bent  a  long  look,  a  second,  a  third  scrutinizing  gaze  upon 
me.  I — I  am  not  ashamed  to  own  it — quivered  some- 
what under  her  searching  glance.  She  impressed  and 
fascinated  me. 

She  seated  herself,  and  slightly  apologizing  to  us  for 
intruding  domestic  affairs,  began  to  speak  with  Frau  Mit- 
tendorf of  some  case  of  village  distress  in  which  they 
were  both  interested.  Then  she  turned  again  to  us, 
speaking  jn  excellent  English,  and  asked  us  whether  we 
were  staying  there,  after  which  she  invited  us  to  dine  at 
her  house  the  following  day  with  Frau  Mittendorf.  After 
the  invitation  had  been  accepted  with  sufficient  reverence 
by  that  lady,  the  Countess  rose  as  if  to  go,  and  turning 
again  to  me  with  still  that  pensive,  half-wistful,  half-mis- 
trustful gaze,  she  said : 

"  I  have  my  carriage  here.  Would  you  like  to  come 
with  me  to  see  our  woods  and  house  ?  They  are  some- 
times interesting  to  strangers." 

"  Oh,  very  much ! "  I  said,  eagerly. 

"Then  come,"  said  she.  "I  will  see  that  you  are  es- 
corted back  when  you  are  tired.  It  is  arranged  that  you 
remain  until  you  feel  gene,  nicht  wahr  ?  " 

"  Oh,  thank  you ! "  said  I  again,  hastening  to  make 
myself  ready,  and  parenthetically  hoping,  as  I  ran  up- 
stairs, that  Frau  Mittendorf's  eyes  might  not  start  quite 
out  of  her  head  with  pride  at  the  honor  conferred  upon 
her  house  and  visitors. 

Very  soon  I  was  seated  beside  the  Grafin  in  the  dark- 
green  clarence,  with  the  grand  coachman  and  the  lady's 
own  Jiiger  beside  him,  and  we  were  driving  along  a 
white  road  with  a  wild  kind  of  country  spreading  round — 
moorland  stretches,  and  rich  deep  woods.  Up  and  down, 
for  the  way  was  uneven,  till  we  entered  a  kind  of  park, 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  373 

and  to  the  right,  high  above,  I  saw  the  great  red  pile 
with  its  little  pointed  towers  crowned  with  things  like  ex- 
tinguishers ending  in  a  lightning-rod,  and  which  seemed 
to  spring  from  all  parts  of  the  heavy  mass  of  the  main 
building. 

That,  then,  was  Schloss  Rothenfels.  It  looked  the  very 
image  of  an  aristocratic,  ancient  feste  JSurg,  grim  and 
grand;  it  brooded  over  us  like  a  frown,  and  dominated 
the  landscape  for  miles  around.  I  was  deeply  impressed ; 
such  a  place  had  always  been  like  a  dream  to  me. 

There  was  something  so  imposingly  conservative  about 
it :  it  looked  as  if  it  had  weathered  so  many  storms;  defy- 
ing such  paltry  forces  as  wind  and  weather,  and  would 
through  so  many  more,  quite  untouched  by  the  roar  of 
life  and  progress  outside — a  fit  and  firm  keeping-place  for 
old  shields,  for  weapons  honorably  hacked  and  dinted,  for 
tattered  loyal  flags — for  art  treasures  and  for  proud 
beauties. 

As  we  gained  the  height,  I  perceived  the  huge  scale  on 
which  the  Schloss  was  constructed.  It  was  a  little  town 
in  itself.  I  saw,  too,  that  plateau  on  the  other  side,  of 
which  I  had  heard :  later  I  explored  it.  It  was  a  natural 
plain — a  kind  of  table-land,  and  was  laid  out  in  what  have 
always,  since  I  was  a  child,  impressed  me  more  than  any 
other  kind  of  surroundings  to  a  house — mile-long  avenues 
of  great  trees,  stretching  perfectly  straight,  like  lines  of 
marching  troops  in  every  direction. 

Long,  melancholy  alleys  and  avenues,  with  huge,  moss- 
grown  stone  figures  and  groups  guarding  the  terraces  or 
keeping  fantastic  watch  over  the  stone  tanks,  on  whose 
surfaces  floated  the  lazy  water-lilies.  Great  moss-grown 
gods  and  goddesses,  and  strange  hybrid  beasts,  and  fauns 
and  satyrs,  and  all  so  silent  and  forlorn,  with  the  lush  grass 
and  heavy  fern  growing  rank  and  thick  under  the  stately 
trees.  To  right  they  stretched  and  to  left ;  and  straight 
away  westward  was  one  long,  wide,  vast,  deserted  avenue, 
at  the  end  of  which  was  an  opening,  and  in  the  opening  a 
huge  stone  myth  or  figure  of  a  runner,  who  in  the  act  of 
racing  receives  an  arrow  in  his  heart,  and  with  arms  madly 
tossed  in  the  air,  staggers. 


374 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


Behind  this  terrible  figure  the  sun  used  to  set,  flaming, 
or  mild,  or  sullen,  and  the  vast  arms  of  it  were  outlined 
against  the  gorgeous  sky,  or  in  the  half-dark  it  glimmered 
like  a  ghost  and  seemed  to  move.  It  had  been  there  so 
long  that  none  could  remember  the  legend  of  it.  It  was  a 
grim  shape. 

Scattered  here  and  there  were  quaint  wildernesses  and 
pleasaunces — clipped  yews  and  oddly-trained  shrubs  and 
flowers  trying  to  make  a  diversion,  but  ever  dominated 
by  the  huge  woods,  the  straight  avenues,  the  mathe- 
matical melancholy  on  an  immense  scale. 

The  Frau  Grafin  glanced  at  me  once  or  twice  as  my 
head  turned  this  way  and  that,  and  my  eyes  could  not 
take  in  the  strange  scene  quickly  enough ;  but  she  said 
nothing,  nor  did  her  severe  face  relax  into  any  smile. 

We  stopped  under  a  huge  porte-cochere  in  which  more 
servants  were  standing  about. 

"  Come  with  me,"  said  the  lady  to  me.  "  First  I  will 
take  you  to  my  rooms,  and  then  when  you  have  rested  a 
little  you  can  do  what  you  like." 

Pleased  at  the  prospect,  I  followed  her;  through  a  hall 
which  without  any  joking  was  baronial ;  through  a  cor- 
ridor into  a  room,  through  which  she  passed,  observing  to 
me : 

"  This  is  the  Rittersaal,  one  of  the  oldest  rooms  in  the 
house." 

The  Rittersaal — a  real,  hereditary  Hall  of  Knights  where 
a  Sangerkrieg  might  have  taken  place — where  Tann- 
hauser  and  the  others  might  have  contended  before  Eliza- 
beth. A  polished  parquet — a  huge  hearth  on  which  burned 
a  large  bright  wood  fire,  whose  flames  sparkled  upon  suits 
of  mail  in  dozens — crossed  swords  and  lances,  over  which 
hung  tattered  banners  and  bannerets.  Shields  and  lances, 
portraits  with  each  a  pair  of  spurs  beneath  it — the  men 
were  all  knights,  of  that  line !  dark  and  grave  chiefly  were 
these  lords  of  the  line  of  Sturm.  In  the  centre  of  the  hall  a 
great  trophy  of  arms  and  armor,  all  of  which  had  been  used, 
and  used  to  purpose ;  the  only  drapery,  the  banners  over 
these  lances  and  portraits.  The  room  delighted  me  while 
it  made  me  feel  small — very  small.  The  Countess  turned 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


375 


at  a  door  at  the  other  end  and  looked  back  upon  me 
where  I  stood  gasping  in  the  door-way  by  which  we  had 
entered.  She  was  one  of  the  house;  this  had  nothing 
overpowering  for  her,  if  it  did  give  some  of  the  pride  to 
her  mien. 

I  hurried  after  her,  apologizing  for  my  tardiness :  she 
waved  the  words  back,  and  led  me  to  a  smaller  room, 
which  appeared  to  be  her  private  sitting-room.  Here  she 
asked  me  to  lay  aside  my  things,  adding  that  she  hoped  I 
should  spend  the  day  at  the  Schloss. 

"  If  you  find  it  not  too  intolerably  stupid,"  she  added. 
"  It  is  a  dull  place." 

I  said  that  it  seemed  to  me  like  something -out  of  a 
fairy  tale,  and  that  I  longed  to  see  more  of  it  if  I  might. 

"  Assuredly  you  shall.  There  may  be  some  few  things 
which  you  may  like  to  see.  I  forget  that  every  one  is  not 
like  myself — tired.  Are  you  musical  ?  " 

'•'•Very!  "  said  I,  emphatically. 

"  Then  you  will  be  interested  in  the  music-rooms  here. 
How  old  are  you  ?  " 

I  told  her.  She  bowed  gravely.  "  You  are  young,  and, 
I  suppose,  happy  ?  "  she  remarked. 

"  Yes,  I  am — very  happy — perfectly,"  said  I,  smiling, 
because  I  could  not  help  it. 

"  When  I  saw  you  I  was  so  struck  with  that  look,"  said 
she.  "  I  thought  I  had  never  seen  any  one  look  so 
radiantly,  transcendently  happy.  I  so  seldom  see  it — 
and  never  feel  it,  and  I  wished  to  see  more  of  you.  I  am 
very  glad  you  are  so  happy — very  glad.  Now  I  will  not 
keep  you  talking  to  me.  I  will  send  for  Herr  Nahrath, 
who  shall  be  your  guide." 

She  rang  the  bell.  I  was  silent,  although  I  longed  to 
say  that  I  could  talk  to  her  for  a  day  without  thinking  of 
weariness,  which  indeed  was  true.  She  impressed  and 
fascinated  me. 

"Send  Herr  Nahrath  here,"  she  said,  and  presently 
there  came  into  the  room  a  young  man  in  the  garb  of 
what  is  called  in  Germany  a  Kandidat—\\\a.\.  is  to  say  an 
embryo  Pastor,  or  Parish  Priest.  He  bowed  very  deeply 
to  the  Countess  and  did  not  speak  or  advance  much  be- 
yond the  door. 


376  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

Having  introduced  us,  she  desired  him  to  act  as  cicerone 
to  me  until  I  was  tired.  He  bowed,  and  I  did  not  dispute 
the  mandate,  although  I  would  rather  have  remained  with 
her,  and  got  to  know  something  of  the  nature  that  lay  be- 
hind those  gray  passionless  features,  than  turn  to  the  so- 
ciety of  that  smug-looking  young  gentleman  who  waited 
so  respectfully,  like  a  machine  whose  mainspring  was  awe. 

I  accompanied  him  nevertheless,  and  he  showed  me 
part  of  the  Schloss,  and  endeavored  in  the  intervals  of  his 
tolerably  arduous  task  of  cicerone  to  make  himself  agree- 
able to  me.  It  was  a  wonderful  place  indeed — this  Schloss. 
The  deeper  we  penetrated  into  it,  the  more  absorbed  and 
interested  did  I  become.  Such  piled-up,  profusely-scat- 
tered treasures  of  art  it  had  never  before  fallen  to  my  lot 
to  behold.  The  abundance  was  prodigal ;  the  judgment, 
cultivation,  high  perception  of  truth,  rarity  and  beauty, 
seemed  almost  faultless.  Gems  of  pictures — treasures  of 
sculpture,  bronze,  china,  carvings,  glass,  coins,  curiosities 
which  it  would  have  taken  a  life-time  properly  to  learn. 
Here  I  saw  for  the  first  time  a  private  library  on  a  large 
scale,  collected  by  generation  after  generation  of  highly- 
cultured  men  and  women — a  perfect  thing  of  its  kind,  and 
one  which  impressed  me  mightily;  but  it  was  not  there 
that  I  was  destined  to  find  the  treasure  which  lay  hidden 
for  me  in  this  enchanted  palace.  We  strayed  over  an  acre 
or  so  of  passage  and  corridor  till  he  paused  before  an  arched 
door  across  which  was  hung  a  curtain,  and  over  which  was 
inscribed  Musik-kammern  (The  Music  Rooms). 

"  If  you  wish  to  see  the  music,  mein  frditlein,  I  must 
leave  you  in  the  hands  of  Herr  Brunken,  who  will  tolerate 
no  cicerone  but  himself." 

"  Oh,  I  wish  to  see  it  certainly,"  said  I,  on  fire  with  cu- 
riosity. 

He  knocked  and  was  bidden  Herein  /  but  not  going  in, 
told  some  one  inside  that  he  recommended  to  his  charge 
a  young  lady  staying  with  the  Countess,  and  who  was  de- 
sirous of  seeing  the  collection. 

"  Pray,  mein  Fraulein,  come  in  ! "  said  a  voice.  Herr 
Nahrath  left  me,  and  I,  lifting  the  curtain  and  pushing 
open  the  half-closed  door,  found  myself  in  an  octagonal 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  377 

room,  confronted  by  the  quaintest  figure  I  had  ever  seen. 
An  old  man  whose  long  gray  hair,  long  white  beard,  and 
long  black  robe  made  him  look  like  a  wizard  or  astrologer 
of  some  mediaeval  romance,  was  smiling  at  me  and  bidding 
me  welcome  to  his  domain.  He  was  the  librarian  and 
general  custodian  of  the  musical  treasures  of  Schloss 
Rothenfels,  and  his  name  was  Brunken.  He  loved  his 
place  and  his  treasures  with  a  jealous  love,  and  would  talk' 
of  favorite  instruments  as  if  they  had  been  dear  children, 
and  of  great  composers  as  if  they  were  gods. 

All  around  the  room  were  large  shelves  filled  with  music 
— and  over  each  division  stood  a  name — such  mighty 
names  as  Scarlatti,  Bach,  Handel,  Beethoven,  Schumann, 
Mozart,  Haydn — all  the  giants,  and  apparently  all  the 
pigmies  too,  were  there.  It  was  a  complete  library  of 
music,  and  though  I  have  seen  many  since,  I  have  never 
beheld  any  which  in  the  least  approached  this  in  richness 
or  completeness.  Rare  old  manuscript  scores ;  priceless 
editions  of  half-forgotten  music ;  the  literature  of  the  pro- 
ductions of  half-forgotten  composers;  Eastern  music,  West- 
ern music;  and  music  of  all  ages;  it  was  an  idealized 
collection — a  musician's  paradise,  only  less  so  than  that  to 
which  he  now  led  me,  from  amidst  the  piled-up  scores  and 
the  gleaming  busts  of  those  mighty  men,  who  here  at  least 
were  honored  with  never-failing  reverence. 

He  took  me  into  a  second  room,  or  rather  hall,  of  great 
size,  height,  and  dimensions,  a  museum  of  musical  instru- 
ments. It  would  take  far  too  long  to  do  it  justice  in  de- 
scription :  indeed,  on  that  first  brief  investigation  I  could 
only  form  a  dim  general  idea  of  the  richness  of  its  treas- 
ures. What  histories — what  centuries  of  story  were  there 
piled  up !  Musical  instruments  of  every  imaginable  form 
and  shape,  and  in  every  stage  of  development.  Odd- 
looking  pre-historic  bone  embryo  instruments  from  differ- 
ent parts  of  France.  Strange  old  things  from  Nineveh, 
and  India,  and  Peru,  instruments  from  tombs  and  pyra- 
mids, and  ancient  ruined  temples  in  tropic  groves — things 
whose  very  nature  and  handling  is  a  mystery  and  a  dispute 
— tuned  to  strange  scales  which  produce  strange  melodies, 
and  carry  us  back  into  other  worlds.  On  them,  perhaps, 
has  the  swarthy  Ninevan,  or  slight  Hindoo,  or  some 


378  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

"Dusky  youth  with  painted  plumage  gay  " 
performed  as  he  apostrophized  his  mistress'  eyebrow.  On 
that  queer-looking  thing  which  may  be  a  fiddle  or  not — 
which  may  have  had  a  bow  or  not — a  slightly-clad  slave 
made  music  while  his  master  the  Rayah  played  chess  with 
his  favorite  wife.  They  are  all  dead  and  gone  now,  and 
their  jewels  are  worn  by  others,  and  the  memory  of  them 
has  vanished  from  off  the  earth ;  and  these,  their  musical 
instruments,  repose  in  a  quiet  corner  amid  the  rough  hills 
and  oak  woods  and  under  the  cloudy  skies  of  the  land  of 
m  usic — Deutschland. 

Down  through  the  changing  scale,  through  the  whole 
range  of  cymbal  and  spinet,  "flute,  harp,  sackbut,  psal- 
tery, dulcimer,  and  all  kinds  of  music "  stand  literally  be- 
fore me,  and  a  strange  revelation  it  is.  Is  it  the  same 
faculty  which  produces  that  grand  piano  of  Bechstein's, 
and  that  clarion  organ  of  Silbermann's,  and  that  African 
drum  dressed  out  with  skulls,  that  war-trumpet  hung  with 
tiger's  teeth  ?  After  this  nothing  is  wonderful !  Strange, 
unearthly-looking  Chinese  frames  of  sonorous  stones  or 
modulated  bells ;  huge  drums,  painted  and  carved,  and 
set  up  on  stands  six  feet  from  the  ground ;  quaint  instru- 
ments from  the  palaces  of  Aztec  Incas,  down  to  pianos  by 
Broadwood,  Collard  and  Collard,  and  Bechstein. 

There  were  trophies  of  Streichinstnimente  and  Blasein- 
strumcnte.  I  was  allowed  to  gaze  upon  two  real  Stradiva- 
rius  fiddles.  I  might  see  the  development  by  evolution, 
and  the  survival  of  the  fittest  in  violin,  cello,  contrabass, 
alto,  beside  countless  others  whose  very  names  have  per- 
ished with  the  time  that  produced  them,  and  the  fingers 
which  played  them — ingenious  guesses,  clever  misses — the 
tragedy  of  harmony  as  well  as  its  lo  Pcean  ! 

There  were  wind  instruments,  quaint  old  double  flutes 
from  Italy ;  pipes,  single,  double,  treble,  from  ages  much 
farther  back ;  harps — Assyrian,  Greek,  and  Roman ;  in- 
struments of  percussion,  guitars,  and  cithers  in  every  form 
and  kind  ;  a  dulcimer — I  took  it  up  and  thought  of  Cole- 
ridge's "damsel  with  a  dulcimer;"  and  a  grand  organ,  as 
well  as  many  incipient  organs,  and  the  quaint  little  things 
of  that  nature  from  China,  Japan,  and  Siam. 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

I  stood  and  gazed  in  wonder  and  amazement. 

"  Surely  the  present  Graf  has  not  collected  all  these  in- 
struments ! "  said  I. 

"Oh  no,  mein  Fraulein ;  they  have  been  accumulating 
for  centuries.  They  tell  strange  tales  of  what  the  Sturms 
will  do  for  music." 

With  which  he  proceeded  to  tell  me  certain  narratives 
of  certain  instruments  in  the  collection,  in  which  he  evi- 
dently firmly  believed,  including  one  relating  to  a  quaint 
old  violin  for  which  he  said  a  certain  Graf  von  Rothenfels 
called  Max  der  Tolle,  or  the  mad  Count  Max,  had  sold 
his  soul. 

As  he  finished  this  last  he  was  called  away,  and  excus- 
ing himself,  left  me.  I  was  alone  in  this  voiceless  temple 
of  so  many  wonderful  sounds.  I  looked  round,  and  a 
feeling  of  awe  and  weirdness  crept  over  me.  My  eyes 
would  not  leave  that  shabby  old  fiddle,  concerning  whose 
demoniac  origin  I  had  just  heard  such  a  cheerful  little 
anecdote.  Every  one  of  those  countless  instruments  was 
capable  of  harmony  and  discord — had  sometime  been 
used ;  pressed,  touched,  scraped,  beaten  or  blown  into  by 
hands  or  mouths  long  since  crumbled  to  dust.  What 
tales  had  been  told !  what  songs  sung,  and  in  what  lan- 
guages; what  laughs  laughed,  tears  shed,  vows  spoken, 
kisses  exchanged,  over  some  of  those  silent  pieces  of  wood, 
brass,  ivory,  and  catgut !  The  feelings  of  all  the  histories 
that  surrounded  me  had  something  eerie  in  it. 

I  stayed  until  I  began  to  feel  nervous,  and  was  thinking 
of  going  away  when  sounds  from  a  third  room  drew  my 
attention.  Some  one  in  there  began  to  play  the  violin, 
and  to  play  it  with  no  ordinary  delicacy  of  manipulation. 
There  was  something  exquisitely  finished,  refined,  and 
delicate  about  the  performance ;  it  lacked  the  bold  splen- 
dor and  originality  of  Eugen's  playing,  but  it  was  so 
lovely  as  to  bring  tears  to  my  eyes,  and,  moreover,  the 
air  was  my  favorite  Trdumerei.  Something  in  those 
sounds,  too,  was  familiar  to  me.  With  a  sudden  beating 
of  the  heart,  a  sudden  eagerness,  I  stepped  hastily  for- 
ward, pushed  back  the  dividing  curtain,  and  entered  the 
room  whence  proceeded  those  sounds. 


380  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

In  the  middle  of  the  room,  which  was  bare  and  empty, 
but  which  had  large  windows  looking  across  the  melan- 
choly plateau,  and  to  the  terrible  figure  of  the  runner  at 
the  end  of  the  avenue — stood  a  boy — a  child  with  a 
violin.  He  was  dressed  richly,  in  velvet  and  silk;  he  was 
grown — the  slender  delicacy  of  his  form  was  set  off  by 
the  fine  clothing  that  rich  men's  children  wear ;  his  beauti- 
ful waving  black  hair  was  somewhat  more  closely  cut,  but 
the  melancholy  yet  richly-colored  young  face  that  turned 
towards  me — the  deep  and  yearning  eyes,  the  large, 
solemn  gaze,  the  premature  gravity,  were  all  his — it  was 
Sigmund,  Courvoisier's  boy. 

For  a  moment  we  both  stood  motionless — hardly  breath- 
ing ;  then  he  flung  his  violin  down,  sprang  forward  with 
a  low  sound  of  intense  joy,  exclaiming : 

"  Das  Fraulein,  das  Fraulein,  from  home  ! "  and  stood 
before  me  trembling  from  head  to  foot. 

I  snatched  the  child  to  my  heart  (he  looked  so  much 
older  and  sadder),  and  covered  him  with  kisses. 

He  submitted — nay,  more,  he  put  his  arms  about  my 
neck  and  laid  his  face  upon  my  shoulder,  and  presently, 
as  if  he  had  choked  down  some  silent  emotion,  looked  up 
at  me  with  large,  imploring,  sad  eyes,  and  asked : 

"  Have  you  seen  my  father  ?  " 

"Sigmund,  I  saw  him  the  day  before  yesterday." 

"You  saw  him — you  spoke  to  him,  perhaps?" 

"Yes.     I  spoke  long  with  him." 

"What  did  he  look  like?" 

"As  he  always  does — brave  and  true  and  noble." 

" Nicht  wahr?"  said  the  boy,  with  flashing  eyes.  "I 
know  how  he  looks,  just.  I  am  waiting  till  I  am  grown 
up,  that  I  may  go  to  him  again." 

"Do  you  like  me,  Sigmund?" 

"Yes;  very  much." 

"  Do  you  think  you  could  love  me  ?  Would  you  trust 
me  to  love  those  you  love  ?  " 

"  Do  you  mean  him  ?  "  he  asked,  point-blank,  and  look- 
ed at  me,  somewhat  startled. 

"Yes." 

"  I — don't — know." 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  ,gx 

"I  mean,  to  take  care  of  him,  and  try  to  make  him 
happy  till  you  come  to  him  again,  and  then  we  will  all  be 
together." 

He  looked  doubtful  still. 

"  What  I  mean,  Sigmund,  is  that  your  father  and  I  are 
going  to  be  married ;  but  we  shall  never  be  quite  happy 
until  you  are  with  us." 

He  stood  still,  taking  it  in,  and  I  waited  in  much 
anxiety.  I  was  certain  that  if  I  had  time  and  opportunity 
I  could  win  him ;  but  I  feared  the  result  of  this  sudden 
announcement  and  separation.  He  might  only  see  that 
his  father — his  supreme  idol — could  turn  for  comfort  to 
another,  while  he  would  not  know  how  I  loved  him  and 
longed  to  make  his  grave  young  life  happy  for  him.  I 
put  my  arm  round  his  shoulder,  and  kneeling  down  be- 
side him,  said : 

"You  must  say  you  are  glad,  Sigmund,  or  you  will 
make  me  very  unhappy.  I  want  you  to  love  me  as  well 
as  him.  Look  at  me  and  tell  me  you  will  trust  me  till  we 
are  all  together,  for  I  am  sure  we  shall  be  together  some 
day." 

He  still  hesitated  some  little  time,  but  at  last  said,  with 
the  sedateness  peculiar  to  him,  as  of  one  who  overcame  a 
struggle  and  made  a  sacrifice : 

"If  he  has  decided  it  so  it  must  be  right,  you  know, 
but — but — you  won't  let  him  forget  me,  will  you?" 

The  child's  nature  overcame  that  which  had  been  as  it 
were  supplanted  and  grafted  upon  it.  The  lip  quivered, 
the  dark  eyes  filled  with  tears.  Poor  little  lonely  child! 
desolate  and  sad  in  the  midst  of  all  the  grandeur!  My 
heart  yearned  to  him. 

"Forget  you,  Sigmund?  Your  father  never  forgets; 
he  cannot." 

"I  wish  I  was  grown  up,"  was  all  he  said. 

Then  it  occurred  to  me  to  wonder  how  he  got  there, 
and  in  what  relation  he  stood  to  these  people. 

"Do  you  live  here,  Sigmund  ?" 

"Yes." 

"What  relation  are  you  to  the  Herr  Graf?" 

"  Graf  von  Rothenfels  is  my  uncle." 


382  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

"  And  are  they  kind  to  you  ?  "  I  asked  in  a  hasty  whis- 
per, for  his  intense  gravity  and  sadness  oppressed  me.  I 
trembled  to  think  of  having  to  tell  his  father  in  what  state 
I  had  found  him. 

"  Oh  yes  !  "  said  he.     "Yes,  very." 

"What  do  you  do  all  day?" 

"  I  learn  lessons  from  Herr  Nahrath,  and  I  ride  with 
uncle  Bruno,  and — and — oh !  I  do  whatever  I  like.     Un 
cle  Bruno  says  that  some  time  I  shall  go  to  Bonn,  or  Hei- 
delberg, or  Jena,  or  England,  whichever  I  like." 

"  And  have  you  no  friends  ?  " 

"  I  like  being  with  Brunken  the  best.  He  talks  to  me 
about  my  father  sometimes.  He  knew  him  when  he  was 
only  as  old  as  I  am." 

"  Did  he  ?     Oh,  I  did  not  know  that." 

"  But  they  won't  tell  me  why  my  father  never  comes 
here,  and  why  they  never  speak  of  him,"  he  added,  wea- 
rily, looking  with  melancholy  eyes  across  the  lines  of 
wood,  through  the  wide  window. 

"Be  sure  it  is  for  nothing  wrong.  He  does  nothing 
wrong.  He  does  nothing  but  what  is  good  and  right," 
said  I. 

"  Oh,  of  course !  But  I  can't  tell  the  reason.  I  think 
and  think  about  it."  He  put  his  hand  wearily  to  his 
head.  "They  never  speak  of  him.  Once  I  said  some- 
thing about  him.  It  was  at  a  great  dinner  they  had. 
Aunt  Hildegarde  turned  quite  pale,  and  Uncle  Bruno 
called  me  to  him  and  said — no  one  heard  it  but  me,  you 
know — '  Never  let  me  hear  that  name  again ! '  and  his 
eyes  looked  so  fierce.  I'm  tired  of  this  place,"  he  added, 
mournfully.  "I  want  to  be  at  Elberthal  again — at  the 
Wehrhahn,  with  my  father  and  Friedhelm  and  Karl  Lin- 
ders.  I  think  of  them  every  hour.  I  liked  Karl  and 
Friedhelm,  and  Gretchen,  and  Frau  Schmidt." 

"They  do  not  live  there  now,  dear,  Friedhelm  and  your 
father,"  said  I,  gently. 

"  Not  ?     Then  where  are  they  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know,"  I  was  forced  to  say.  "  They  were 
fighting  in  the  war.  I  think  they  live  at  Berlin  now,  but 
1  am  not  at  all  sure." 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


383 


This  uncertainty  seemed  to  cause  him  much  distress, 
and  he  would  have  added  more,  but  our  conversation  was 
brought  to  an  end  by  the  entrance  of  Brunken,  who 
looked  rather  surprised  to  see  us  in  such  close  and  earnest 
consultation. 

"Will  you  show  me  the  way  back  to  the  Countess's 
room  ?  "  said  I  to  Sigmund. 

He  put  his  hand  in  mine,  and  led  me  through  many  of 
those  interminable  halls  and  passages  until  we  came  to 
the  Rittersaal  again. 

"Sigmund,"  said  I,  "are  you  not  proud  to  belong  to 
these  ? "  and  I  pointed  to  the  dim  portraits  hanging 
around. 

"Yes,"  said  he  doubtfully.  "Uncle  Bruno  is  always 
telling  me  that  I  must  do  nothing  to  disgrace  their  name, 
because  I  shall  one  day  rule  their  lands ;  but,"  he  added, 
with  more  animation,  "do  you  not  see  all  these  likenesses? 
These  are  all  counts  of  Rothenfels,  who  have  been  heads 
of  the  family.  You  see  the  last  one  is  here — Graf  Bruno 
— my  uncle.  But  in  another  room  there  are  a  great 
many  more  portraits,  ladies  and  children  and  young  men, 
and  a  man  is  painting  a  likeness  of  me,  which  is  going  to 
be  hung  up  there ;  but  my  father  is  not  there.  What  does 
it  mean  ?  " 

I  was  silent.  I  knew  his  portrait  must  have  been  re- 
moved because  he  was  considered  to  be  living  in  dishonor 
— a  stain  to  the  house,  who  was  perhaps  the  most  chival- 
rous of  the  whole  race ;  but  this  I  could  not  tell  Sigmund. 
It  was  beginning  already,  the  trial,  the  "test"  of  which  he 
had  spoken  to  me,  and  it  was  harder  in  reality  than  in 
anticipation. 

"I  don't  want  to  be  stuck  up  there  where  he  has  no 
place,"  Sigmund  went  on,  sullenly.  "And  I  should  like 
to  cut  the  hateful  picture  to  pieces  when  it  comes." 

With  this  he  ushered  me  into  Grafin  Hildegarde's 
boudoir  again.  She  was  still  there,  and  a  tall,  stately, 
stern-looking  man  of  some  fifty  years  was  with  her. 

His  appearance  gave  me  a  strange  shock.  He  was 
Eugen,  older  and  without  any  of  his  artist  brightness; 
Eugea's  grace  turned  into  pride  and  stony  hauteur.  He 


384  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

looked  as  if  he  could  be  savage  upon  occasion ;  a  nature 
born  to  power  and  nurtured  in  it.  Ruggedly  upright,  but 
narrow.  I  learned  him  by  heart  afterwards,  and  found 
that  every  act  of  his  was  the  direct,  unsoftened  outcome 
of  his  nature. 

This  was  Graf  Bruno ;  this  was  the  proud,  intensely 
feeling  man  who  had  never  forgiven  the  stain  which  he 
supposed  his  brother  had  brought  upon  their  house ;  this 
was  he  who  had  proposed  such  hard,  bald,  pitiless  terms 
concerning  the  parting  of  father  and  son — who  forbade 
the  child  to  speak  of  the  loved  one. 

"  Ha ! "  said  he,  "  you  have  found  Sigmund,  mein  Frau- 
lein  ?  Where  did  you  meet,  then  ?  " 

His  keen  eyes  swept  me  from  head  to  foot.  In  that, 
at  least,  Eugen  resembled  him;  my  lover's  glance  was  as 
hawk-like  as  this,  and  as  impenetrable. 

"  In  the  music-room,"  said  Sigmund :  and  the  uncle's 
glance  left  me  and  fell  upon  the  boy. 

I  soon  read  that  story.  The  child  was  at  once  the 
light  of  his  eyes  and  the  bitterness  of  his  life.  As  for 
Countess  Hildegarde,  she  gazed  at  her  nephew  with  all  a 
mother's  soul  in  her  pathetic  eyes,  and  was  silent. 

"  Come  here,"  said  the  Graf,  seating  himself  and  draw- 
ing the  boy  to  him.  "What  hast  thou  been  doing  ?" 

There  was  no  fear  in  the  child's  demeanor— he  was  too 
thoroughly  a  child  of  their  own  race  to  know  fear — but 
there  was  no  love,  no  lighting  up  of  the  features,  no  glad 
meeting  of  the  eyes. 

"I  was  with  Nahrath  till  Aunt  Hildegarde  sent  for  him, 
and  then  I  went  to  practice." 

"  Practice  what  ?     Thy  riding  or  fencing  ?" 

"  No ;  my  violin." 

"Bah!  What  an  extraordinary  thing  it  is  that  this  lad 
has  no  taste  for  anything  but  fiddling,"  observed  the  uncle, 
half  aside. 

Grafin  Hildegarde  looked  sharply  and  apprehensively 
up. 

Sigmund  shrank  a  little  away  from  his  uncle,  not  timid- 
ly, but  with  some  distaste.  Words  were  upon  his  lips; 
his  eye  flashed,  his  lips  parted ;  then  he  checked  himself, 
and  was  silent. 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


385 


"Nun  denn!"  said  the  Count.  "What  hast  thou? 
Out  with  it !  " 

Nothing  that  it  would   please  you   to   hear,  uncle ; 
therefore  I  will  not  say  it,"  was  the  composed  retort. 

The  grim-looking  man  laughed  a  grim  little  laugh,  as  if 
satisfied  with  the  audacity  of  the  boy,  and  his  grizzled 
mustache  swept  the  soft  cheek. 

"  I  ride  no  further  this  morning :  but  this  afternoon  I 
shall  go  to  Mulhausen.  Will  thou  come  with  me  ?" 

"Yes,  uncle." 

Neither  willing  nor  unwilling  was  the  tone,  and  the  an- 
swer appeared  to  dissatisfy  the  other,  who  said : 

'"Yes,  uncle ' — what  does  that  mean  ?  Dost  thou  not 
wish  to  go  ?  " 

"  Oh  yes!     I  would  as  soon  go  as  stay  at  home." 

"But  the  distance,  Bruno,"  here  interposed  the  Countess 
in  a  low  tone.  "  I  am  sure  it  is  too  far.  He  is  not  too 
strong." 

"Distance?  Pooh!  Hildegarde,  I  wonder  at  you; 
considering  what  stock  you  come  of,  you  should  be  su- 
perior to  such  nonsense  !  Wert  thou  thinking  of  the  dis- 
tance, Sigmund  ?  " 

"  Distance — no,"  said  he,  indifferently. 

"Come  with  me,"  said  the  elder.  "I  want  to  show 
thee  something." 

They  went  out  of  the  room  together.  Yes,  it  was  self- 
evident  ;  the  man  idolized  the  child.  Strange  mixture  of 
sternness  and  softness !  The  supposed  sin  of  the  father 
was  never  to  be  pardoned ;  but  natural  affection  was  to 
have  its  way,  and  be  lavished  upon  the  son  :  and  the  son 
could  not  return  it,  because  the  influence  of  the  banished 
scapegrace  was  too  strong — he  had  won  it  all  for  himself, 
as  scapegraces  have  the  habit  of  doing. 

Again  I  was  left  alone  with  the  Countess,  sitting  up- 
right over  her  embroidery.  A  dull  life  this  great  lady  led. 
She  cared  nothing  for  the  world's  gayeties,  and  she  had 
neither  chick  nor  child  to  be  ambitious  for.  Her  husband 
was  polite  enough  to  her;  but  she  knew  perfectly  well, 
and  accepted  it  as  a  matter  of  course,  that  the  death  of 
her  who  had  lived  with  him  and  been  his  companion  for 

25 


386 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


twenty-five  years,  would  have  weighed  less  by  half  with 
him  than  any  catastrophe  to  that  mournful,  unenthusiastic 
child,  who  had  not  been  two  years  under  their  roof,  and 
who  displayed  no  delight  in  the  wealth  of  love  lavished 
upon  him. 

She  knew  that  she  also  adored  the  child,  but  that  his 
affection  was  hard  to  get.  She  dared  not  show  her  love 
openly,  or  in  the  presence  of  her  husband,  who  seemed  to 
look  upon  the  boy  as  his  exclusive  property,  and  was  as 
jealous  as  a  tiger  of  the  few  faint  testimonies  of  affection 
manifested  by  his  darling.  A  dull  journey  to  Berlin  once 
a  year,  an  occasional  visitor,  the  society  of  her  director 
and  that  of  her  husband — who  showed  how  much  at  home 
with  her  he  felt  by  going  to  sleep  whenever  he  was  more 
than  quarter  of  an  hour  in  her  presence — a  little  interest 
of  a  lofty,  distant  kind  in  her  towns-people  of  the  poorer 
sort,  an  occasional  call  upon  or  from  some  distant  neigh- 
bor of  a  rank  approaching  her  own;  for  the  rest,  em- 
broidery in  the  newest  patterns  and  most  elegant  style 
some  few  books,  chiefly  religious  and  polemical  works— 
and  what  can  be  drearier  than  Roman  Catholic  polemics, 
unless,  indeed,  Protestant  ones  eclipse  them  ? — a  large 
house,  vast  estates,  servants  who  never  raised  their  voices 
beyond  a  certain  tone ;  the  envy  of  all  the  middle-class 
women,  the  fear  and  reverential  courtesies  of  the  poorer 
ones — a  cheerful  existence,  and  one  which  accounted  for 
some  of  the  wrinkles  which  so  plentifully  decked  her  brow. 

"That  is  our  nephew,"  said  she;  "my  husband's  heir." 

"I  have  often  seen  him  before,"  said  I;  "but  I  should 
have  thought  that  his  father  would  be  your  husband's 
next  heir." 

Never  shall  I  forget  the  look  she  darted  upon  me — the 
awful  glance  which  swept  over  me  scathingly,  ere  she  said, 
in  icy  tones : 

"What  do  you  mean?  Have  you  seen — or  do  you 
know — Graf  Eugen  ?  " 

There  was  a  pause,  as  if  the  name  had  not  passed  her 
lips  for  so  long  that  now  she  had  difficulty  in  uttering  it. 

"I  knew  him  as  Eugen  Courvoisier,"  said  I;  but  the 
other  name  was  a  revelation  to  me,  and  told  me  that  he 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  387 

was  also  "  to  the  manner  born."  "  I  saw  him  two  days 
ago,  and  I  conversed  with  him,"  I  added. 

She  was  silent  for  a  moment,  and  surveyed  me  with  a 
haggard  look.  I  met  her  glance  fully,  openly. 

"  Do  you  wish  to  know  anything  about  him  ?  "  I  asked. 

"Certainly  not,"  said  she,  striving  to  speak  frigidly; 
but  there  was  a  piteous  tremble  in  her  low  tones.  "The 
man  has  dis —  What  am  I  saying?  It  is  sufficient  to 
say  that  he  is  not  on  terms  with  his  family." 

"So  he  told  me,"  said  I,  struggling  on  my  own  part  to 
keep  back  the  burning  words  within  me. 

The  Countess  looked  at  me — looked  again.  I  saw  now 
that  this  was  one  of  the  great  sorrows  of  her  sorrowful 
life.  She  felt  that  to  be  consistent  she  ought  to  wave  aside 
the  subject  with  calm  contempt ;  but  it  made  her  heart 
bleed.  I  pitied  her ;  I  felt  an  odd  kind  of  affection  for 
her  already.  The  promise  I  had  given  to  Eugen  lay  hard 
and  heavy  upon  me. 

"What  did  he  tell  you?"  she  asked,  at  last;  and  I 
paused  ere  I  answered,  trying  to  think  what  I  could  make 
of  this  opportunity.  "Do  you  know  the  facts  of  the 
case?"  she  added. 

"No;  he  said  he  would  write." 

"  Would  write!  "  she  echoed,  suspending  her  work,  and 
fixing  me  with  her  eyes.  "  Would  write — to  whom  ?  " 

"To  me." 

"You  correspond  with  him?"  There  was  a  tremulous 
eagerness  in  her  manner. 

"I  have  never  corresponded  with  him  yet,"  said  I, 
"but  I  have  known  him  long,  and  loved  him  almost  from 
the  first.  The  other  day  I  promised— to— marry  him." 

"You?"  said  she;  "you  are  going  to  marry  Eugen! 
Are  you" — her  eyes  said,  "Are  you  good  enough  for 
him ?  "  but  she  came  to  an  abrupt  conclusion.  " Tell  me," 
said  she;  "where  did  you  meet  him,  and  how?" 

I  told  her  in  what  capacity  I  had  become  acquainted 
with  him,  and  she  listened  breathlessly.  Every  moment 
I  felt  the  prohibition  to  speak  heavier,  for  I  saw  that  the 
Countess  von  Rothenfels  would  have  been  only  too  de- 
lighted to  hail  any  idea,  any  suggestion,  which  should  al- 


388 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


low  her  to  indulge  the  love  that,  though  so  strong,  she 
rigidly  repressed.  I  dare  say  I  told  my  story  in  a  halting 
kind  of  way ;  it  was  difficult  for  me  on  the  spur  of  the 
moment  to  know  clearly  what  to  say  and  what  to  leave 
unsaid.  As  I  told  the  Countess  about  Eugen's  and  my 
voyage  down  the  river,  a  sort  of  smile  tried  to  struggle 
out  upon  her  lips;  it  was  evidently  as  good  as  a  romance 
iO  her.  I  finished,  saying : 

"That  is  the  truth,  gnddige  Frau.  All  I  fear  is  that  I 
am  not  good  enough  for  him — shall  not  satisfy  him." 

"My  child!"  said  she,  and  paused.  "My  dear  child," 
she  took  both  my  hands,  and  her  lips  quivered,  "you  do 
not  know  how  I  feel  for  you.  I  can  feel  for  you  because 
I  fear  that  with  you  it  will  be  as  it  was  with  me.  Do  you 
know  any  of  the  circumstances  under  which  Eugen  von 
Rothenfels  left  his  friends  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know  them  circumstantially.  I  know  he  was 
accused  of  something,  and — and — did  not — I  mean — " 

"  Could  not  deny  it,"  she  said.  "  I  dare  not  take  the 
responsibility  of  leaving  you  in  ignorance.  I  must  tell 
you  all,  and  may  Our  Lady  give  me  eloquence!" 

"I  should  like  to  hear  the  story,  madame,  but  I  do  not 
think  any  eloquence  will  change  my  mind." 

"  He  always  had  a  manner  calculated  to  deceive  and 
charm,"  said  she;  "always.  Well,  my  husband  is  his 
half-brother.  I  was  their  cousin.  They  are  the  sons  of 
different  mothers,  and  my  husband  is  many  years  older 
than  Eugen — eighteen  years  older.  He,  my  husband, 
was  thirty  years  old  when  he  succeeded  to  the  name  and 
estates  of  his  father — Eugen,  you  see,  was  just  twelve 
years  old,  a  school-boy.  We  were  just  married.  It  is  a 
very  long  time  ago — ach,  ja  !  a  very  long  time  ago  !  We 
played  the  part  of  parents  to  that  boy.  We  were  child- 
less, and  as  time  went  on,  we  lavished  upon  him  all  the 
love  which  we  should  have  bestowed  upon  our  own  chil- 
dren had  we  been  happy  enough  to  have  any.  I  do  not 
think  any  one  was  ever  better  loved  than  he.  It  so  hap- 
pened that  his  own  inheritance  was  not  a  large  one ;  that 
made  no  difference.  My  husband,  with  my  fullest  con- 
sent and  approbation,  had  every  intention  of  providing 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

for  him :  we  had  enough  and  to  spare :  money  and  land 
and  house-room  for  half-a-dozen  families,  and  our  two 
selves  alone  to  enjoy  it  all.  He  always  seemed  fond  of 
us.  I  suppose  it  was  his  facile  manner,  which  could  take 
the  appearance  of  an  interest  and  affection  which  he  did 
not  feel — " 

"No,  Frau  Grafin  !  no,  indeed!" 
"  Wait  till  you  have  heard  all,  my  poor  child.  Every 
one  loved  him.  How  proud  I  was  of  him.  Sometimes 
I  think  it  is  a  chastisement,  but  had  you  been  in  my  place 
you  would  have  been  proud  too ;  so  gallant,  so  handsome, 
such  grace,  and  such  a  charm.  He  was  the  joy  of  my 
life,"  she  said  in  a  passionate  undertone.  "  He  went  by 
the  name  of  a  worthy  descendant  of  all  essential  things : 
honor  and  loyalty  and  bravery,  and  so  on.  They  used  to 
call  him  Prinz  £ugen,  der  edle  Ritter,  after  the  old  song. 
He  was  wild  and  impatient  of  control,  but  who  is  not  ? 
I  hate  your  young  men  whose  veins  run  milk,  not  blood. 
He  was  one  of  a  fiery,  passionate  line.  At  the  universi- 
ties he  was  extravagant;  we  heard  of  all  sorts  of  follies." 
"  Did  you  ever  hear  of  anything  base — anything  under- 
hand or  dishonorable  ?  " 

"  Never — oh,  never.  High  play.  He  was  very  inti- 
mate with  a  set  of  young  Englishmen,  and  the  play  was 
dreadful,  it  is  true;  he  betted  too.  That  is  a  curse.  Play 
and  horses,  and  general  recklessness  and  extravagance, 
but  no  wine  and  no  women.  I  never  heard  that  he  had 
the  least  affinity  for  either  of  these  dissipations.  There 
were  debts — I  suppose  all  young  men  in  his  position  make 
debts,"  said  the  Countess/placidly.  "My  husband  made 
debts  at  college,  and  I  am  sure  my  brothers  did.  Then 
he  left  college  and  lived  at  home  awhile,  and  that  was  the 
happiest  time  of  my  life.  But  it  is  over. 

"  Then  he  entered  the  army — of  course.  His  family 
interest  procured  him  promotion.  He  was  captain  in  a  fine 
Uhlan  regiment.  He  was  with  his  regiment  at  Berlin  and 

Munich,  and .     And  always  we  heard  the  same  tales 

— play  and  wild,  fast  living.     Music  always  had  a  hold 
upon  him. 

"  In  the  midst  of  his  extravagance  he  was  sometimes  so 


39° 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN, 


simple.  I  remember  we  were  dreadfully  frightened  at  a 

rumor  that  he  had  got  entangled  with  Fraulein ,  a 

singer  of  great  beauty  at  the  Hofoper  at .  I  got  my 

husband  to  let  me  write  about  it.  I  soon  had  an  answer 
from  Eugen.  How  he  laughed  at  me !  He  had  paid  a 
lot  of  debts  for  the  girl,  which  had  been  pressing  heavily 
upon  her  since  her  career  began ;  now  he  said  he  trusted 
she  would  get  along  swimmingly;  he  was  going  to  her 
benefit  that  night. 

"  But  when  he  was  at ,  and  when  he  was  about 

six-and-twenty,  he  really  did  get  engaged  to  be  married. 
He  wrote  and  told  us  about  it.  That  was  the  first  bitter 
blow:  she  was  an  Italian  girl  of  respectable  but  by  no 
means  noble  family — he  was  always  a  dreadful  radical  in 
such  matters.  She  was  governess  in  the  house  of  one  of 
his  friends  in . 

"We  did  everything  we  could  think  of  to  divert  him 
from  it.  It  was  useless.  He  married  her,  but  he  did  not 
become  less  extravagant.  She  did  not  help  him  to  be- 
come steady,  I  must  say.  She  liked  gayety  and  admira- 
tion, and  he  liked  her  to  be  worshiped.  He  indulged 
her  frightfully.  He  played — he  would  play  so  dreadfully. 

"We  had  his  wife  over  to  see  us,  and  he  came  with 
her.  We  were  agreeably  surprised.  She  quite  won  our 
hearts.  She  was  very  beautiful  and  very  charming — had 
rather  a  pretty  voice,  though  nothing  much.  We  forgave 
all  his  misconduct,  and  my  husband  talked  to  him  and 
implored  him  to  amend.  He  said  he  would.  Mere 
promises !  It  was  so  easy  to  him  to  make  promises. 

"That  poor  young  wife!  Instead  of  pitying  him  for 
having  made  a  mesalliance,  we  know  now  that  it  was  she 
who  was  to  be  pitied  for  having  fallen  into  the  hands  of 
such  a  black-hearted,  false  man — " 

The  lady  paused.  The  recital  evidently  cost  her  some 
pain  and  some  emotion.  She  went  on  : 

"She  was  expecting  her  confinement.  They  returned 

to ,  where  we  also  had  a  house,  and  we  went  with 

them.  Vittoria  shortly  afterwards  gave  birth  to  a  son. 
That  was  in  our  house.  My  husband  would  have  it  so. 
That  son  was  to  reconcile  all  and  make  everything 
straight.  At  that  time  Eugen  must  have  been  in  some 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  3gl 

anxiety :  he  had  been  betting  heavily  on  the  English 
Derby.  We  did  not  know  that,  nor  why  he  had  gone  to 
England.  At  last  it  came  out  that  he  was  simply  ruined. 
My  husband  was  dreadfully  cut  up.  I  was  very  unhappy 
— so  unhappy  that  I  was  ill  and  confined  to  my  room. 

"  My  husband  left  town  for  a  few  days  to  come  over  to 
Rothenfels  on  business.  Eugen  was  scarcely  ever  in  the 
house.  I  thought  it  was  our  reproachful  faces  that  he  did 
not  wish  to  see.  Then  my  husband  came  back.  He  was 
more  cheerful.  He  had  been  thinking  things  over,  he 
said.  He  kissed  me,  and  told  me  to  cheer  up  :  he  had  a 
plan  for  Eugen,  which,  he  believed,  would  set  all  right 
again. 

"  In  that  very  moment  some  one  asked  to  see  him.  It 
was  a  clerk  from  the  bank  with  a  check  which  they  had 
cashed  the  day  before.  Had  my  husband  signed  it  ?  I 
saw  him  look  at  it  for  a  moment.  Then  he  sent  the  man 
away,  saying  that  he  was  then  busy  and  would  communi- 
cate with  him.  Then  he  showed  me  the  check.  It  was 
payable  to  the  bearer,  and  across  the  back  was  written 
'  Vittoria  von  Rothenfels.' 

"  You  must  bear  in  mind  that  Eugen  was  living  in  his 
own  house,  in  another  quarter  of  the  town.  My  husband 
sent  the  check  to  him,  with  a  brief  inquiry  as  to  whether 
he  knew  anything  about  it.  Then  he  went  out :  he  had 
an  appointment,  and  when  he  returned  he  found  a  letter 
from  Eugen.  It  was  not  long :  it  was  burned  into  my 
heart,  and  I  have  never  forgotten  a  syllable  of  it.  It  was : 

"'I  return  the  check.  I  am  guilty.  I  relieve  you  of 
all  further  responsibility  about  me.  It  is  evident  that  I 
am  not  fit  for  my  position.  I  leave  this  place  forever, 
taking  the  boy  with  me.  Vittoria  does  not  seem  to  care 
about  having  him.  Will  you  look  after  her  ?  Do  not  let 
her  starve  in  punishment  for  my  sin.  For  me — I  leave 

you  forever. 

"<  EUGEN.' 

"That  was  the  letter.  Ei!  main  Gott  >  Oh,  it  is  hid- 
eous, child,  to  find  that  those  in  whom  you  believed  so 
intensely  are  bad — rotten  to  the  core.  I  had  loved  Eu- 


392 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


gen:  he  had  made  a  sunshine  in  my  not  very  cheerful 
life.  His  coming  was  a  joy  to  me,  his  going  away  a 
sorrow.  It  made  everything  so  much  blacker  when  the 
truth  came  out.  Of  course  the  matter  was  hushed  up. 

"My  husband  took  immediate  steps  about  it.  Soon 
afterwards  we  came  here ;  Vittoria  with  us.  Poor  girl ! 
Poor  girl !  She  did  nothing  but  weep  and  wring  her 
hands,  moan  and  lament  and  wonder  why  she  had  ever 
been  born,  and  at  last  she  died  of  decline — that  is  to  say, 
they  called  it  decline,  but  it  was  really  a  broken  heart. 
That  is  the  story — a  black  chronicle,  is  it  not?  You 
know  about  Sigmund's  coming  here.  My  husband  re- 
membered that  he  was  heir  to  our  name,  and  we  were  in 
a  measure  responsible  for  him.  Eugen  had  taken  the 
name  of  a  distant  family  connection  on  his  mother's  side 
— she  had  French  blood  in  her  veins — Courvoisier.  Now 
you  know  all,  my  child — he  is  not  good.  Do  not  trust 
him." 

I  was  silent.  My  heart  burned ;  my  tongue  longed  to 
utter  ardent  words,  but  I  remembered  his  sad  smile  as  he 
said,  "You  shrink  from  that,"  and  I  braced  myself  to 
silence.  The  thing  seemed  to  me  altogether  so  pitiable — 
and  yet — and  yet,  I  had  sworn.  But  how  had  he  lived 
out  these  five  terrible  years  ? 

By-and-by  the  luncheon-bell  rang.  We  all  met  once 
more.  I  felt  every  hour  more  like  one  in  a  dream  or  in 
some  impossible  old  romance.  That  piece  of  outward 
death-like  reserve,  the  Countess,  with  the  fire  within 
which  she  was  forever  spending  her  energy  in  attempts 
to  quench ;  that  conglomeration  of  ice,  pride,  roughness 
and  chivalry,  the  Herr  Graf  himself;  the  thin,  wooden- 
looking  priest,  the  director  of  the  Grafin ;  that  lovely 
picture  of  grace  and  bloom,  with  the  dash  of  melancholy, 
Sigmund;  certainly  it  was  the  strangest  company  in 
which  I  had  ever  been  present.  The  Countess  sent  me 
home  in  the  afternoon,  reminding  me  that  I  was  engaged 
to  dine  there  with  the  others  to-morrow.  I  managed  to 
get  a  word  aside  with  Sigmund — to  kiss  him  and  tell  him 
I  should  come  to  see  him  again.  Then  I  left  them ;  in- 
terested, enthralled,  fascinated  with  them  and  their  life, 
and — more  in  love  with  Eugen  than  ever. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

"  WHERE  IS  MY  FATHER  ?  " 

WE  had  been  bidden  to  dine  at  the  Schloss — Frau 
Mittendorf,  Stella,  and  I.  In  due  time  the  Doctor's 
new  carriage  was  called  out,  and  seated  in  it  we  were 
driven  to  the  great  castle.  With  a  renewed  joy  and  awe 
I  looked  at  it  by  twilight,  with  the  dusk  of  sunset  veiling 
its  woods  and  turning  the  whole  mass  to  the  color  of  a 
deep  earth-stain.  Eugen's  home :  there  he  had  been 
born ;  as  the  child  of  such  a  race  and  in  its  traditions  he 
had  been  nurtured  by  that  sad  lady  whom  we  were  going 
to  see.  I  at  least  knew  that  he  had  acted,  was  now  act- 
ing, up  to  the  very  standard  of  his  high  calling.  The 
place  had  lost  much  of  its  awfulness  for  me;  it  had  be- 
come even  friendly  and  lovely. 

The  dinner  was  necessarily  a  solemn  one.  I  was  look- 
ing out  for  Sigmund,  who,  however,  did  not  put  in  any 
appearance. 

After  dinner,  when  we  were  all  assembled  in  a  vast 
salon  which  the  numberless  wax-lights  did  but  partially 
and  in  the  centre  illuminate,  I  determined  to  make  an 
effort  at  release  from  this  seclusion,  and  asked  the  Count- 
ess (who  had  motioned  me  to  a  seat  beside  her)  where 
Sigmund  was. 

"  He  seemed  a  little  languid  and  not  inclined  to  come 
down-stairs,"  said  she.  "I  expect  he  is  in  the  music- 
room — he  generally  finds  his  way  there." 

"  Oh,  I  wish  you  would  allow  me  to  go  and  see  him." 

393 


294  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

"Certainly,  my  child,"  said  she,  ringing;  and  presently 
a  servant  guided  me  to  the  door  of  the  music -rooms,  and 
in  answer  to  my  knock  I  was  bidden  Herein  ! 

I  entered.  The  room  was  in  shadow;  but  a  deep, 
glowing  fire  burned  in  a  great  cavernous,  stone  fire-place, 
and  shone  upon  huge  brass  andirons  on  either  side  the 
hearth.  In  an  easy-chair  sat  Brunken,  the  old  librarian, 
and  his  white  hair  and  beard  were  also  warmed  into  rosi- 
ness  by  the  fire-glow.  At  his  feet  lay  Sigmund,  who  had 
apparently  been  listening  to  some  story  of  his  old  friend. 
His  hands  were  clasped  about  the  old  man's  knee,  his 
face  upturned,  his  hair  pushed  back. 

Both  turned  as  I  came  in;  and  Sigmund  sprang  up, 
but  ere  he  had  advanced  two  paces,  paused  and  stood 
still,  as  if  overcome  with  languor  or  weariness. 

"Sigmund,  I  have  come  to  see  you,"  said  I,  coming  to 
the  fire  and  greeting  the  old  man,  who  welcomed  me 
hospitably. 

I  took  Sigmund's  hand :  it  was  hot  and  dry.  I  kissed 
him  :  lips  and  cheeks  were  burning  and  glowing  crimson. 
I  swept  the  hair  from  his  brow  :  that  too  was  burning,  and 
his  temples  throbbed.  His  eyes  met  mine  with  a  strange, 
misty  look.  Saying  nothing,  I  seated  myself  in  a  low 
chair  near  the  fire,  and  drew  him  to  me.  He  nestled  up 
to  me,  and  I  felt  that  if  Eugen  could  see  us  he  would  be 
almost  satisfied.  Sigmund  did  not  say  anything.  He 
merely  settled  his  head  upon  my  breast,  gave  a  deep  sigh 
as  if  of  relief,  and  closing  his  eyes,  said : 

"  Now,  Brunken,  go  on ! " 

"As  I  was  saying,  mein  Licbling,  I  hope  to  prove  all 
former  theorists  and  writers  upon  the  subject  to  have  been 
wrong — " 

" He's  talking  about  a  Magrepha"  said  Sigmund,  still 
not  opening  his  eyes. 

"  A  Magrepha — what  may  that  be  ?  "  I  inquired. 

"  Yes.  Some  people  say  it  was  a  real  full-blown  organ," 
explained  Sigmund,  in  a  thick,  hesitating  voice,  "  and  some 
say  it  was  nothing  better  than  a  bagpipe — oh  dear !  how 
my  head  does  ache! — and  there  are  people  who  say  it 
was  a  kettle-drum — nothing  more  nor  less ;  and  Brunken 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  39S 

is  going  to  show  that  not  one  of  them  knew  anything 
about  it." 

"  I  hope  so,  at  least,"  said  Brunken,  with  modest  pla- 
cidity. 

"Oh,  indeed!"  said  I,  glancing  a  little  timidly  into  the 
far  recesses  of  the  deep,  ghostly  room,  where  the  firelight 
kept  catching  the  sheen  of  metal ;  the  yellow  whiteness 
of  ivory  keys  or  pipes,  or  the  polished  case  of  some 
stringed  instrument. 

Strange,  grotesque  shapes  loomed  out  in  the  uncertain, 
flickering  light;  but  was  it  not  a  strange  and  haunted 
chamber  ?  Ever  it  seemed  to  me  as  if  breaths  of  air  blew 
through  it,  which  came  from  all  imaginable  kinds  of 
graves,  and  were  the  breaths  of  those  departed  ones  who 
had  handled  the  strange  collection,  and  who  wished  to 
finger,  or  blow  into,  or  beat  the  dumb,  unvibrating  things 
once  more. 

Did  I  say  unvibrating  ?  I  was  wrong  then.  The  strings 
sometimes  quivered  to  sounds  that  set  them  trembling; 
something  like  a  whispered  tone  I  have  heard  from  the 
deep,  upturned  throats  of  great  brazen  trumpets — some- 
thing like  a  distant  moan  floating  around  the  gilded  organ- 
pipes.  In  after-days,  when  Friedhelm  Helfen  knew  this 
room  he  made  a  wonderful  fantasia  about  it,  in  which  all 
the  dumb  instruments  woke  up,  or  tried  to  wake  up  to  life 
again,  for  the  whole  place  impressed  him,  he  told  me,  as 
nothing  that  he  had  ever  known  before. 

Brunken  went  on  in  a  droning  tone,  giving  theories  of 
his  own  as  to  the  nature  of  the  Magrepha,  and  I,  with  my 
arms  around  Sigmund,  half  listened  to  the  sleepy  mono- 
tone of  the  good  old  visionary.  But  what  spoke  to  me 
with  a  more  potent  voice  was  the  soughing  and  wuthering 
of  the  sorrowful  wind  without,  which  verily  moaned  around 
the  old  walls,  and  sought  out  the  old  corners,  and  wailed, 
and  plained,  and  sobbed  in  a  way  that  was  enough  to 
break  one's  heart. 

By  degrees  a  silence  settled  upon  us.  Brunken,  having 
satisfactorily  annihilated  his  enemies,  ceased  to  speak  ;  the 
fire  burned  lower ;  Sigmund's  eyes  were  closed ;  his  cheeks 
were  not  less  flushed  than  before,  nor  his  brow  less  hot, 


396  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

and  a  frown  contracted  it.  I  know  not  how  long  a  time 
had  passed,  but  I  had  no  wish  to  rise. 

The  door  was  opened,  and  some  one  came  into  the 
room.  I  looked  up.  It  was  the  Grafin.  Brunken  rose 
and  stood  to  one  side,  bowing. 

I  could  not  get  up,  but  some  movement  of  mine,  per- 
haps, disturbed  the  heavy  and  feverish  slumber  of  the 
child.  He  started  wide  awake,  with  a  look  of  wild  terror, 
and  gazed  down  into  the  darkness,  crying  out : 

"  Mein  Vater,  where  art  thou  ?  " 

A  strange,  startled,  frightened  look  crossed  the  face  of 
the  Countess  when  she  heard  the  words.  She  did  not 
speak,  and  I  said  some  soothing  words  to  Sigmund. 

But  there  could  be  no  doubt  that  he  was  very  ill.  It 
was  quite  unlike  his  usual  silent  courage  and  reticence  to 
wring  his  small  hands  and  with  ever-increasing  terror  turn 
a  deaf  ear  to  my  soothings,  sobbing  out  in  tones  of  pain 
and  insistence : 

"  Father !  father !  where  art  thou  ?     I  want  thee ! " 

Then  lie  began  to  cry  pitifully,  and  the  only  word  that 
was  heard  was  "Father!"  It  was  like  some  recurrent 
wail  in  a  piece  of  music,  which  warns  one  all  through  of 
a  coming  tragedy. 

"Oh  dear!  What  is  to  be  done?  Sigmund!  Was 
ist  denn  mit  dir,  mein  Engel?"  said  the  poor  Countess, 
greatly  distressed. 

"  He  is  ill,"  said  I.  "  I  think  he  has  taken  an  illness. 
Does  thy  head  ache,  Sigmund  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  he,  "it  does.  Where  is  my  own  father? 
My  head  never  ached  when  I  was  with  my  father." 

"  Mein  Gott !  mein  Gott  /"  said  the  Countess  in  a  low 
tone.  "  I  thought  he  had  forgotten  his  father." 

"  Forgotten  ! "  echoed  I.  "  Frau  Grafin,  he  is  one  of 
yourselves.  You  do  not  seem  to  forget." 

"  He  rrgott ! "  she  exclaimed,  wringing  her  hands. 
"What  can  be  the  matter  with  him  ?  What  must  I  say 
to  Bruno  ?  Sigmund,  darling,  what  hast  thou  then  ? 
What  ails  thee  ?  " 

"  I  want  my  father !  "  he  repeated.  Nor  would  he  utter 
any  other  word.  The  one  idea,  long  dormant,  had  now 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  .  397 

taken  full  possession  of  him ;  in  fever,  half  delirious,  out 
of  the  fullness  of  his  heart  his  mouth  spake. 

"Sigmund,  Liebchen"  said  the  Countess,  "control  thy- 
self. Thy  uncle  must  not  hear  thee  say  that  word." 

"I  don't  want  my  uncle.  I  want  my  father / "  said 
Sigmund,  looking  restlessly  round.  "Oh,  where  is  he? 
I  have  not  seen  him — it  is  so  long,  and  I  want  him.  I 
love  him ;  I  do  love  my  father,  and  I  want  him." 

It  was  pitiful,  pathetic,  somewhat  tragic  too.  The  poor 
Countess  had  not  the  faintest  idea  what  to  do  with  the 
boy,  whose  illness  frightened  her.  I  suggested  that  he 
should  be  put  to  bed  and  the  doctor  sent  for,  as  he  had 
probably  taken  some  complaint  which  would  declare  itself 
in  a  few  days,  and  might  be  merely  some  childish  dis- 
order. 

The  Countess  seized  my  suggestion  eagerly.  Sigmund 
was  taken  away.  I  saw  him  no  more  that  night.  Pres- 
ently we  left  the  Schloss  and  drove  home. 

I  found  a  letter  waiting  for  me  from  Eugen.  He  was 
still  at  Elberthal,  and  appeared  to  have  been  reproaching 
himself  for  having  accepted  my  "sacrifice,"  as  he  called 
it.  He  spoke  of  Sigmund.  There  was  more,  too,  in  the 
letter,  which  made  me  both  glad  and  sad.  I  felt  life 
spreading  before  me,  endowed  with  a  gravity,  a  largeness 
of  aim,  and  a  dignity  of  purpose  such  as  I  had  never 
dreamed  of  before. 

It  seemed  that  for  me,  too,  there  was  work  to  do.  I 
also  had  a  love  for  whose  sake  to  endure.  This  made  me 
feel  grave.  Eugen's  low  spirits,  and  the  increased  bitter- 
ness with  which  he  spoke  of  things,  made  me  sad ;  but 
something  else  made  me  glad.  Throughout  his  whole 
letter  there  breathed  a  passion,  a  warmth — restrained,  but 
glowing  through  its  bonds  of  reticent  words — an  eager- 
ness which  told  me  that  at  last 

"As  I  love,  loved  am  I." 

Even  after  that  sail  down  the  river  I  had  felt  a  half 
mistrust :  now  all  doubts  were  removed.  He  loved  me. 
He  had  learned  it  in  all  its  truth  and  breadth  since  we 
last  parted.  He  talked  of  renunciation,  but  it  was  with 


398  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

an  anguish  so  keen  as  to  make  me  wince  for  him  who  felt 
it.  If  he  tried  to  renounce  me  now,  it  would  not  be  the 
cold  laying  aside  of  a  thing  for  which  he  did  not  care,  it 
would  be  the  wrenching  himself  away  from  his  heart's 
desire.  I  triumphed  in  the  knowledge,  and  this  was  what 
made  me  glad. 

Almost  before  we  had  finished  breakfast  in  the  morning, 
there  came  a  thundering  of  wheels  up  to  the  door,  and  a 
shriek  of  excitement  from  Frau  Mittendorf,  who,  Morgeri- 
haube  on  her  head,  shapeless  old  morning  gown  clinging 
hideously  about  her  ample  figure,  rushed  to  the  window, 
looked  out,  and  announced  the  carriage  of  the  Frau 
Griifin. 

" Aber !  What  can  she  want  at  this  early  hour?"  she 
speculated,  coming  into  the  room  again  and  staring  at  us 
both  with  wide  open  eyes,  round  with  agitation  and  im- 
portance. "But  I  dare  say  she  wishes  to  consult  me  upon 
some  matter.  I  wish  I  were  dressed  more  becomingly. 
I  have  heard — that  is,  I  know,  for  I  am  so  intimate  with 
her — that  she  never  wears  neglige.  I  wonder  if  I  should 
have  time  to — " 

She  stopped  to  hold  out  her  hand  for  the  note  which  a 
servant  was  bringing  in ;  but  her  face  fell  when  the  missive 
was  presented  to  me. 

"LiEBE  MAI"  (it  began), 

"Will  you  come  and  help  me  in  my  trouble  ?  Sigmund 
is  very  ill.  Sometimes  he  is  delirious.  He  calls  for  you 
often.  It  breaks  my  heart  to  find  that  after  all  not  a 
word  is  uttered  of  us,  but  only  of  Eugen  (burn  this  when 
you  have  read  it),  of  you,  and  of '  Karl,'  and  '  Friedhelm,' 
and  one  or  two  other  names  which  I  do  not  know.  I 
fear  this  petition  will  sound  troublesome  to  you,  who  were 
certainly  not  made  for  trouble,  but  you  are  kind.  I  saw 
it  in  your  face.  I  grieve  too  much.  Truly  the  flesh  is 
fearfully  weak.  I  would  live  as  if  earth  had  no  joys  for 
me — as  indeed  it  has  none — and  yet  that  does  not  prevent 
my  suffering.  May  God  help  me !  Trusting  to  you, 
"Your 

"HlLDEGARDE  V.  ROTHENFELS." 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

I  lost  no  time  in  complying  with  this  summons.  In  a 
few  moments  I  was  in  the  carriage ;  ere  long  I  was  at  the 
Schloss,  was  met  by  Countess  Hildegarde,  looking  like  a 
ghost  that  had  been  keeping  a  strict  Lent,  and  was  at  last 
by  Sigmund's  bedside. 

He  was  tossing  feverishly  from  side  to  side,  murmuring 
and  muttering.  But  when  he  saw  me  he  was  still,  a  sweet, 
frank  smile  flitted  over  his  face — a  smile  wonderfully  like 
that  which  his  father  had  lately  bent  upon  me.  He  gave 
a  little  laugh,  saying : 

"Fraulein  May!  Willkommen!  Have  you  brought 
my  father  ?  And  I  should  like  to  see  Friedhelm,  too. 
You  and  der  Vater  and  Friedel  used  to  sit  near  together 
at  the  concert,  don't  you  remember  ?  I  went  once,  and 
you  sang.  That  tall  black  man  beat  time,  and  my  father 
never  stopped  looking  at  you  and  listening — Friedel  too. 
I  will  ask  them  if  they  remember." 

He  laughed  again  at  the  reminiscence,  and  took  my 
hand,  and  asked  me  if  I  remembered,  so  that  it  was  with 
difficulty  that  I  steadied  my  voice  and  kept  my  eyes  from 
running  over  as  I  answered  him.  Grafin  Hildegarde  be- 
hind wrung  her  hands  and  turned  to  the  window.  He 
did  not  advance  any  reminiscences  of  what  had  happened 
since  he  came  to  the  Schloss. 

There  was  no  doubt  that  our  Sigmund  was  very  ill.  A 
visitation  of  scarlet  fever,  of  the  worst  kind,  was  raging 
in  Lahnburg,  and  in  the  hamlet  of  Rothenfels,  which  lay 
about  the  gates  of  the  Schloss. 

Sigmund,  some  ten  days  before,  had  ridden  with  his 
uncle,  and  waited  on  his  pony  for  some  time  outside  a 
row  of  cottages,  while  the  Count  visited  one  of  his  old 
servants,  a  man  who  had  become  an  octogenarian  in  the 
service  of  his  family,  and  upon  whom  Graf  Bruno  period- 
ically shed  the  light  of  his  countenance. 

It  was  scarcely  to  be  doubted  that  the  boy  had  taken 
the  infection  then  and  there,  and  the  doctor  did  not  con- 
ceal that  he  had  the  complaint  in  its  worst  form,  and  that 
his  recovery  admitted  of  the  gravest  doubts. 

A  short  time  convinced  me  that  I  must  not  again  leave 
the  child  till  the  illness  were  decided  in  one  way  or  an- 


400 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


other.  He  was  mine  now,  and  I  felt  myself  in  the  place 
of  Eugen,  as  I  stood  beside  his  bed  and  told  him  the 
hard  truth — that  his  father  was  not  there,  nor  Friedhelm, 
nor  Karl,  for  whom  he  also  asked,  but  only  I. 

The  day  passed  on.  A  certain  conviction  was  growing 
every  hour  stronger  with  me.  An  incident  at  last  decided 
it.  I  had  scarcely  left  Sigraund's  side  for  eight  or  nine 
hours,  but  I  had  seen  nothing  of  the  Count,  nor  heard 
his  voice,  nor  had  any  mention  been  made  of  him,  and 
remembering  how  he  adored  the  boy,  I  was  surprised. 

At  last  Grafin  Hildegarde,  after  a  brief  absence,  came 
into  the  room,  and  with  a  white  face  and  parted  lips,  said 
to  me  in  a  half-whisper : 

"Liebe  Miss  Wedderburn,  will  you  do  something  for 
me  ?  Will  you  speak  to  my  husband  ?  " 

"To  your  husband!"  I  ejaculated. 

She  bowed. 

"  He  longs  to  see  Sigmund,  but  dare  not  come.  For 
me,  I  have  hardly  dared  to  go  near  him  since  the  little 
one  began  to  be  ill.  He  believes  that  Sigmund  will  die, 
and  that  he  will  be  his  murderer,  having  taken  him  out 
that  day.  I  have  often  spoken  to  him  about  making  der 
Arme  ride  too  far,  and  now  the  sight  of  me  reminds  him 
of  it;  he  cannot  endure  to  look  at  me.  Heaven  help 
me !  Why  was  I  ever  born  ?  " 

She  turned  away  without  tears — tears  were  not  in  her 
line — and  I  went,  much  against  my  will,  to  find  the  Graf. 

He  was  in  his  study.  Was  that  the  same  man,  I  won- 
dered, whom  I  had  seen  the  very  day  before,  so  strong, 
and  full  of  pride  and  life  ?  He  raised  a  haggard,  white, 
and  ghastly  face  to  me,  which  had  aged  and  fallen  in  un- 
speakably. He  made  an  effort,  and  rose  with  politeness 
as  I  came  in. 

"Mein  frdulein,  you  are  loading  us  with  obligations. 
It  is  quite  unheard  of." 

But  no  thanks  were  implied  in  the  tone — only  bitter- 
ness. He  was  angry  that  I  should  be  in  the  place  he 
dared  not  come  to. 

If  I  had  not  been  raised  by  one  supreme  fear  above  all 
smaller  ones,  I  should  have  been  afraid  of  this  haggard, 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN.  4OI 

eager-looking  old  man— for  he  did  look  very  old  in  his 
anguish.  I  could  see  the  rage  of  jealousy  with  which  he 
regarded  me,  and  I  am  not  naturally  fond  of  encounter- 
ing an  old  wolf  who  has  starved. 

But  I  used  my  utmost  efforts  to  prevail  upon  him  to 
visit  his  nephew,  and  at  last  succeeded.  I  piloted  him  to 
Sigmund's  room;  led  him  to  the  boy's  bedside.  The 
sick  child's  eyes  were  closed,  but  he  presently  opened 
them.  The  uncle  was  stooping  over  him,  his  rugged  face 
all  working  with  emotion,  and  his  voice  broken  as  he 
murmured : 

"Ach,  mein  Liebling!  art  thou  then  so  ill  ?" 
With  a  kind  of  shuddering  cry,  the  boy  pushed  him 
away  with  both  hands,  crying : 

"  Go  away  !  I  want  my  father — my  father,  my  father, 
I  say !  Where  is  he  ?  Why  do  you  not  fetch  him  ? 
You  are  a  bad  man,  and  you  hate  him." 

Then  I  was  frightened.  The  Count  recoiled;  his  face 
turned  deathly  white — livid ;  his  fist  clenched.  He  glared 
down  upon  the  now  unrecognizing  young  face,  and  stut- 
tered forth  something,  paused,  then  said  in  a  low,  distinct 
voice,  which  shook  me  from  head  to  foot : 

"  So  !  Better  he  should  die.  The  brood  is  worthy  the 
nest  it  sprang  from.  Where  is  our  blood,  that  he  whines 
after  that  hound — that  hound?" 

With  which,  and  with  a  fell  look  around,  he  departed, 
leaving  Sigmund  oblivious  of  all  that  had  passed,  utterly 
indifferent  and  unconscious,  and  me  shivering  with  fear  at 
the  outburst  I  had  seen. 

But  it  seemed  to  me  that  my  charge  was  worse.  I  left 
him  for  a  few  moments,  and  seeking  out  the  Countess, 
spoke  my  mind. 

"  Frau  Grafin,  Eugen  must  be  sent  for.  I  fear  that 
Sigmund  is  going  to  die,  and  I  dare  not  let  him  die  with- 
out sending  for  his  father." 

"  I  dare  not ! "  said  the  Countess. 
She  had  met  her  husband,  and  was  flung,  unnerved, 
upon  a  couch,  her  hand  over  her  heart. 

"  But  I  dare,  and  I  must  do  it ! "  said  I,  secretly  won- 
dering at  myself.     "  I  shall  telegraph  for  him." 
26 


402 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


11  If  my  husband  knew ! "  she  breathed. 

"I  cannot  help  it,"  said  I.  "Is  the  poor  child  to  die 
amongst  people  who  profess  to  love  him,  with  the  one 
wish  ungratified  which  he  has  been  repeating  ever  since 
he  began  to  be  ill  ?  I  do  not  understand  such  love ;  I 
call  it  horrible  inhumanity." 

"  For  Eugen  to  enter  this  house  again ! "  she  said  in  a 
whisper. 

"  I  would  to  God  that  there  were  any  other  head  as 
noble  under  its  roof!"  was  my  magniloquent  and  thor- 
oughly earnest  aspiration.  "Well,  gnadige  frau,  will  you 
arrange  this  matter,  or  shall  I  ?  " 

"I  dare  not,"  she  moaned,  half  distracted ;  "I  dare  not 
— but  I  will  do  nothing  to  prevent  you.  Use  the  whole 
household ;  they  are  at  your  command." 

I  lost  not  an  instant  in  writing  out  a  telegram  and 
dispatching  it  by  a  man  on  horseback  to  Lahnburg.  I 
summoned  Eugen  briefly : 

"  Sigmund  is  ill.     I  -am  here.     Come  to  us." 

I  saw  the  man  depart,  and  then  I  went  and  told  the 
Countess  what  I  had  done.  She  turned,  if  possible,  a 
shade  paler ;  then  said : 

"  I  am  not  responsible  for  it." 

Then  I  left  the  poor  pale  lady  to  still  her  beating  heart 
and  kill  her  deadly  apprehensions  in  the  embroidery  of 
the  lily  of  the  field  and  the  modest  violet. 

No  change  in  the  child's  condition.  A  lethargy  had 
fallen  upon  him.  That  awful  stupor,  with  the  dark, 
flushed  cheek  and  heavy  breath,  was  to  me  more  ominous 
than  the  restlessness  of  fever. 

I  sat  down  and  calculated.  My  telegram  might  be  in 
Eugen's  hands  in  the  course  of  an  hour. 

When  could  he  be  here?  Was  it  possible  that  he 
might  arrive  this  night  ?  I  obtained  the  German  equiva- 
lent for  Bradshaw,  and  studied  it  till  I  thought  I  had 
made  out  that,  supposing  Eugen  to  receive  the  telegram 
in  the  shortest  possible  time,  he  might  be  here  by  half- 
past  eleven  that  night.  It  was  now  five  in  the  afternoon. 
Six  hours  and  a  half — and  at  the  end  of  that  time  his  non- 
arrival  might'tell  me  that  he  could  not  be  here  before  the 
morrow. 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


403 


I  sat  still,  and  now  that  the  deed  was  done,  gave  my- 
self up,  with  my  usual  enlightenment  and  discretion,  to 
fears  and  apprehensions.  The  terrible  look  and  tone  of 
Graf  von  Rothenfels  returned  to  my  mind  in  full  force. 
Clearly  it  was  just  the  most  dangerous  thing  in  the  world 
for  Eugen  to  do — to  put  in  an  appearance  at  the  present 
time.  But  another  glance  at  Sigmund  somewhat  re-as- 
sured me.  In  wondering  whether  girl  had  ever  before 
been  placed  in  such  a  bizarre  situation  as  mine,  darkness 
overtook  me. 

Sigmund  moved  restlessly  and  moaned,  stretching  out 
little  hot  hands,  and  saying,  "  Father ! "  I  caught  those 
hands  to  my  lips,  and  knew  that  I  had  done  right. 


CHAPTER  V. 

VINDICATED. 

IT  was  a  wild  night.  Driving  clouds  kept  hiding  and 
revealing  the  stormy-looking  moon.  I  was  out  of 
doors.  I  could  not  remain  in  the  house;  it  had  felt  too 
small  for  me,  but  now  nature  felt  too  large.  I  dimly  saw 
the  huge  pile  of  the  Schloss  denned  against  the  gray  light; 
sometimes  when  the  moon  unveiled  herself  it  started  out 
clear,  and  black,  and  grim.  I  saw  a  light  in  a  corner 
window — that  was  Sigmund's  room;  another  in  a  room 
below — that  was  the  Grafs  study,  and  there  the  terrible 
man  sat.  I  heard  the  wind  moan  amongst  the  trees, 
heard  the  great  dogs  baying  from  the  kennels ;  from  an 
open  window  came  rich,  low,  mellow  sounds.  Old 
Brunken  was  in  the  music-room,  playing  to  himself  upon 
his  violoncello.  That  was  a  movement  from  the  Grand 
Septuor — the  second  movement,  which  is,  if  one  may  use 
such  an  expression,  painfully  beautiful.  I  bethought  my- 
self of  the  woods  which  lay  hidden  from  me,  the  vast 
avenues,  the  lonely  tanks,  the  grotesque  statues,  and  that 
terrible  figure  with  its  arms  cast  upward,  at  the  end  of  the 
long  walk,  and  I  shivered  faintly. 

I  was  some  short  distance  down  the  principal  avenue, 
and  dared  not  go  any  farther.  A  sudden  dread  of  the 
loneliness  and  the  night-voices  came  upon  me ;  my  heart 
beating  thickly,  I  turned  to  go  back  to  the  house.  I 
would  try  to  comfort  poor  Countess  Hildegarde  in  her 
watching  and  her  fears. 
404 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


405 


But  that  is  a  step  near  me.  Some  one  comes  up  the 
avenue,  with  foot  that  knows  its  windings,  its  turns  and 
twists,  its  ups  and  downs. 

"  Eugen  ! "  I  said,  tremulously. 

A  sudden  pause — a  stop ;  then  he  said,  with  a  kind  of 
laugh : 

"Witchcraft — Zaubereif"  and  was  going  on. 

But  now  I  knew  his  whereabouts,  and  coming  up  to 
him,  touched  his  arm. 

"  This,  however,  is  reality ! "  he  exclaimed,  infolding  me 
and  kissing  me  as  he  hurried  on.  "May,  how  is  he?" 

"Just  the  same,"  said  I,  clinging  to  him.  "Oh,  thank 
heaven  that  you  are  come ! " 

"  I  drove  to  the  gates,  and  sent  the  fellow  away.  But 
what  art  thou  doing  alone  at  the  Ghost's  Corner  on  a 
stormy  night  ?  " 

We  were  still  walking  fast  towards  the  Schloss.  My 
heart  was  beating  fast,  half  with  fear  of  what  was  impend- 
ing, half  with  intensity  of  joy  at  hearing  his  voice  again, 
and  knowing  what  that  last  letter  had  told  me. 

As  we  emerged  upon  the  great  terrace  before  the  house 
Eugen  made  one  (the  only  one)  momentary  pause,  pressed 
my  arm,  and  bit  his  lips.  I  knew  the  meaning  of  it  all. 
Then  we  passed  quickly  on.  We  met  no  one  in  the  great 
stone  hall — no  one  on  the  stairway  or  along  the  passages 
— straight  he  held  his  way,  and  I  with  him. 

We  entered  the  room.  Eugen's  eyes  leaped  swiftly  to 
his  child's  face.  I  saw  him  pass  his  hand  over  his  mouth. 
I  withdrew  my  hand  from  his  arm  and  stood  aside,  feel- 
ing a  tremulous  thankfulness  that  he  was  here,  and  that 
that  restless  plaining  would  at  last  be  hushed  in  satisfac- 
tion. 

A  delusion !  The  face  over  which  my  lover  bent  did 
not  brighten ;  nor  the  eyes  recognize  him.  The  child  did 
not  know  the  father  for  whom  he  had  yearned  out  his 
little  heart — he  did  not  hear  the  half-frantic  words  spoken 
by  that  father  as  he  flung  himself  upon  him,  kissing  him, 
beseeching  him,  conjuring  him  with  every  foolish  word  of 
fondness  that  he  could  think  of,  to  speak,  answer,  look 
up  once  again. 


406  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

Then  fear,  terror  overcame  the  man — for  the  first  time 
I  saw  him  look  pale  with  apprehension. 

"Not  this  cup — not  this!"  muttered  he.  "  Gott  im 
Himmel !  anything  short  of  this — I  will  give  him  up — 
leave  him — anything — only  let  him  live  ! " 

He  had  flung  himself,  unnerved,  trembling,  upon  a  chair 
by  the  bedside — his  face  buried  in  his  hands.  I  saw  the 
sweat  stand  upon  his  brow — I  could  do  nothing  to  help — 
nothing  but  wish  despairingly  that  some  blessed  miracle 
would  reverse  the  condition  of  the  child  and  me — lay  me 
low  in  death  upon  that  bed — place  him  safe  and  sound  in 
his  father's  arms. 

Is  it  not  hard,  you  father  of  many  children,  to  lose  one 
of  them  ?  Do  you  not  grudge  Death  his  prize  ?  But 
this  man  had  but  the  one ;  the  love  between  them  was 
such  a  love  as  one  meets  perhaps  once  in  a  life-time. 
The  child's  life  had  been  a  mourning  to  him,  the  father's 
a  burden,  ever  since  they  had  parted. 

I  felt  it  strange  that  /should  be  trying  to  comfort  him, 
and  yet  it  was  so :  it  was  his  brow  which  leaned  on  my 
shoulder;  it  was  he  who  was  faint  with  anguish,  so  that 
he  could  scarce  see  or  speak — his  hand  that  was  cold  and 
nerveless.  It  was  I  who  said : 

"Do  not  despair:  I  hope  still." 

"If  he  is  dying,"  said  Eugen,  "he  shall  die  in  my 
arms." 

With  which,  as  if  the  idea  were  a  dreary  kind  of  com- 
fort, he  started  up,  folded  Sigmund  in  a  shawl,  and  lifted 
him  out  of  bed,  infolding  him  in  his  arms,  and  pillowing 
his  head  upon  his  breast. 

It  was  a  terrible  moment,  yet,  as  I  clung  to  his  arm, 
and  with  him  looked  into  our  darling's  face,  I  felt  that 
Von  Francius's  words,  spoken  long  ago  to  my  sister,  con- 
tained a  deep  truth.  This  joy,  so  like  a  sorrow — would 
I  have  parted  with  it  ?  A  thousand  times  no  ! 

Whether  the  motion  and  movement  roused  him,  or 
whether  that  were  the  crisis  of  some  change,  I  know  not. 
Sigmund's  eyes  opened.  He  bent  them  upon  the  face 
above  him,  and  after  a  pause  of  reflection  said,  in  a  voice 
whose  utter  satisfaction  passed  anything  I  had  ever  heard  : 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


407 


"  My  own  father ! "  released  a  pair  of  little  wasted  anus 
from  his  covering,  and  clasped  them  round  Eugen's  neck, 
putting  his  face  close  to  his,  and  kissing  him  as  if  no  num- 
ber of  kisses  could  ever  satisfy  him. 

Upon  this  scene,  as  Eugen  stood  in  the  middle  of  the 
room,  his  head  bent  down — a  smile  upon  his  face  which 
no  ultimate  griefs  could  for  the  moment  quench,  there 
entered  the  Countess. 

Her  greeting,  after  six  years  of  absence,  separation,  be- 
lief in  his  dishonesty,  was  a  strange  one.  She  came 
quickly  forward,  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm,  and  said  : 

"  Eugen,  it  is  dreadfully  infectious !  Don't  kiss  the 
child  in  that  way,  or  you  will  take  the  fever  and  be  laid 
up  too." 

He  looked  up,  and  at  his  look  a  shock  passed  across 
her  face ;  with  pallid  cheeks  and  parted  lips  she  gazed  at 
him,  speechless. 

His  mind,  too,  seemed  to  bridge  the  gulf — it  was  in  a 
strange  tone  that  he  answered : 

"  Ah,  Hildegarde !  What  does  it  matter  what  becomes 
of  me  ?  Leave  me  this ! " 

"  No,  not  that,  Eugen,"  said  I,  going  up  to  him,  and  I 
suppose  something  in  my  eyes  moved  him,  for  he  gave 
the  child  into  my  arms  in  silence. 

The  Countess  had  stood  looking  at  him.  She  strove 
for  silence ;  sought  tremulously  after  coldness,  but  in  vain. 

"Eugen! — "  She  came  nearer,  and  looked  more 
closely  at  him.  "  Herrgott  f  how  you  are  altered ! 
What  a  meeting!  I — can  it  be  six  years  ago? — and 
now — oh!"  Her  voice  broke  into  a  very  wail,  "We 
loved  you — why  did  you  deceive  us  ?  " 

My  heart  stood  still.  Would  he  stand  this  test  ?  It 
was  the  hardest  he  had  had.  Grafin  Hildegarde  had 
been — was  dear  to  him.  That  he  was  dear  to  her — in- 
tensely dear;  that  love  for  him  was  entwined  about  her 
very  heart-strings  stood  confessed  now.  "  Why  did  you 
deceive  us?"  It  sounded  more  like,  "Tell  us  we  may 
trust  you ;  make  us  happy  again  ! "  One  word  from  him, 
and  the  poor  sad  lady  would  have  banished  from  her 
heart  the  long-staying,  unwelcome  guest — belief  in  his 
falseness,  and  closed  it  away  from  her  forever. 


408  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

He  was  spared  the  dreadful  necessity  of  answering  her. 
A  timid  summons  from  her  maid  at  the  door  told  her  the 

Count  wanted  to  speak  to  her,  and  she  left  us  quickly. 
****** 

Sigmund  did  not  die:  he  recovered,  and  lives  now. 
But  with  that  I  am  not  at  present  concerned. 

It  was  the  afternoon  following  that  never-to-be-forgotten 
night.  I  had  left  Eugen  watching  beside  Sigmund,  who 
was  sleeping,  his  hand  jealously  holding  two  of  his  father's 
fingers. 

I  intended  to  call  at  Frau  Mittendorf's  door  to  say  that 
I  could  not  yet  return  there,  and  when  I  came  back,  said 
Eugen,  he  would  have  something  to  tell  me;  he  was 
going  to  speak  with  his  brother — to  tell  him  that  we 
should  be  married,  "and  to  speak  about  Sigmund,"  he 
added  decisively.  "I  will  not  risk  such  a  thing  as  this 
again.  If  you  had  not  been  here  he  might  have  died 
without  my  knowing  it.  I  feel  myself  absolved  from  all 
obligation  to  let  him  remain.  My  child's  happiness  shall 
not  be  further  sacrificed." 

With  this  understanding  I  left  him.  I  went  towards 
the  Countess's  room,  to  speak  to  her,  and  tell  her  of  Sig- 
mund before  I  went  out.  I  heard  voices  ere  I  entered 
the  room,  and  when  I  entered  it  I  stood  still,  and  a  sickly 
apprehension  clutched  my  very  heart.  There  stood  my 
evil  genius — the  boser  Geist  of  my  lover's  fate — Anna 
Sartorius.  And  the  Count  and  Countess  were  present, 
apparently  waiting  for  her  to  begin  to  speak. 

"You  are  here,"  said  the  Grafin  to  me.  "I  was  just 
about  to  send  for  you.  This  lady  says  she  knows  you." 

"She  does,"  said  I,  hesitatingly. 

Anna  looked  at  me.  There  was  gravity  in  her  face, 
and  the  usual  cynical  smile  in  her  eyes. 

"You  are  surprised  to  see  me,"  said  she.  "You  will  be 
still  more  surprised  to  hear  that  I  have  journeyed  all  the 
way  from  Elberthal  to  Lahnburg  on  your  account,  and 
for  your  benefit." 

I  did  not  believe  her,  and  composing  myself  as  well  as 
I  could,  sat  down.  After  all,  what  could  she  do  to  harm 
me?  She  could  not  rob  me  of  Eugen's  heart,  and  she 
had  already  done  her  worst  against  him  and  his  fair  name. 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


409 


Anna  had  a  strong  will :  she  exerted  it.  Graf  Bruno 
was  looking  in  some  surprise  at  the  unexpected  guest ; 
the  Countess  sat  rigidly  upright,  with  a  puzzled  look,  as 
if  at  the  sight  of  Anna  she  recalled  some  far-past  scene. 
Anna  compelled  their  attention ;  she  turned  to  me,  say- 
ing: 

"  Please  remain  here,  Miss  Wedderburn.  What  I  have 
to  say  concerns  you  as  much  as  any  one  here.  You  won- 
der who  I  am,  and  what  business  I  have  to  intrude  my- 
self upon  you,"  she  added  to  the  others. 

"  I  confess — "  began  the  Countess,  and  Anna  went  on  : 

"  You,  gnddige  Frau,  have  spoken  to  me  before,  and  I 
to  you.  I  see  you  remember,  or  feel  you  ought  to  re- 
member me.  I  will  recall  the  occasion  of  our  meeting  to 
your  mind.  You  once  called  at  my  father's  house — he 
was  a  music  teacher — to  ask  about  lessons  for  some  friend 
or  protegee  of  yours.  My  father  was  engaged  at  the 
moment,  and  I  invited  you  to  my  sitting-room  and  en- 
deavored to  begin  a  conversation  with  you.  You  were 
very  distant  and  very  proud,  scarcely  deigning  to  answer 
me.  When  my  father  came  into  the  room,  I  left  it.  But 
I  could  not  help  laughing  at  your  treatment  of  me.  You 
little  knew  from  your  shut-up,  cossuc  existence  amongst 
the  lofty  ones  of  the  earth,  what  influence  even  such  in- 
significant persons  as  I  might  have  upon  your  lot.  At 
that  time  I  was  the  intimate  friend  of,  and  in  close  corre- 
spondence with,  a  person  who  afterwards  became  one  of 
your  family.  Her  name  was  Vittoria  Leopardi,  and  she 
married  your  brother-in-law,  Graf  Eugen." 

The  plain-spoken,  plain-looking  woman  had  her  way. 
She  had  the  same  power  as  that  which  shone  in  the  "  glit- 
tering eye"  of  the  Ancient  Mariner.  Whether  we  liked 
or  not  we  gave  her  our  attention.  All  were  listening 
now,  and  we  listened  to  the  end. 

"  Vittoria  Leopardi  was  the  Italian  governess  at  Gen- 
eral von 's  in .  At  one  time  she  had  several 

music  lessons  from  my  father.  That  was. how  I  became 
acquainted  with  her.  She  was  very  beautiful — almost  as 
beautiful  as  you,  Miss  Wedderburn,  and  I,  dull  and  plain 
myself,  have  a  keen  appreciation  of  beauty  and  of  the 


4io 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


gentleness  which  does  not  always  accompany  it.  When  I 
first  knew  her  she  was  lonely  and  strange,  and  I  tried  to 
befriend  her.  I  soon  began  to  learn  what  a  singular 
mixture  of  sordid  worldliness  and  vacant  weakmindedness 
dwelt  behind  her  fair  face.  She  wrote  to  me  often,  for 
she  was  one  of  the  persons  who  must  have  some  one  to 
whom  to  relate  their  'triumphs'  and  conquests,  and  I 
suppose  I  was  the  only  person  she  could  get  to  listen  to 
her. 

"At  that  time — the  time  you  called  at  our  house,  gna- 
dige  Frau — her  epistles  were  decidedly  tedious.  What 
sense  she  had — there  was  never  too  much  of  it — was 
completely  eclipsed.  At  last  came  the  announcement 
that  her  noble  and  gallant  Uhlan  had  proposed,  and  been 
accepted — naturally.  She  told  me  what  he  was,  and  his 
possessions  and  prospects;  his  chief  merit  in  her  eyes 
appeared  to  be  that  he  would  let  her  do  anything  she 
liked,  and  release  her  from  the  drudgery  of  teaching,  for 
which  she  never  had  the  least  affinity.  She  hated  chil- 
dren. She  never  on  any  occasion  hinted  that  she  loved 
him  very  much. 

"In  due  time  the  marriage,  as  you  all  know,  came  off. 
She  almost  dropped  me  then,  but  never  completely  so ; 
I  suppose  she  had  that  instinct  which  stupid  people  often 
have  as  to  the  sort  of  people  who  may  be  of  use  to  them 
sometime.  I  received  no  invitations  to  her  house.  She 
used  awkwardly  to  apologize  for  the  negligence  some- 
times, and  say  she  was  so  busy,  and  it  would  be  no  com- 
pliment to  me  to  ask  me  to  meet  all  those  stupid  people 
of  whom  the  house  was  always  full. 

"That  did  not  trouble  me  much,  though  I  loved  her 
none  the  better  for  it.  She  had  become  more  a  study 
to  me  now  than  anything  I  really  cared  for.  Occasion- 
ally I  used  to  go  and  see  her,  in  the  morning,  before  she 
had  left  her  room ;  and  once,  and  once  only,  I  met  her 
husband  in  the  corridor.  He  was  hastening  away  to  his 
duty,  and  scarcely  saw  me  as  he  hurried  past.  Of  course 
I  knew  him  by  sight  as  well  as  possible.  Who  did  not  ? 
Occasionally  she  came  to  me  to  recount  her  triumphs  and 
make  me  jealous.  She  did  not  wish  to  reign  supreme  in 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


411 


her  husband's  heart;  she  wished  idle  men  to  pay  her 
compliments.  Everybody  in knew  of  the  extrava- 
gance of  that  household,  and  the  reckless,  neck-or-nothing 
habits  of  its  master.  People  were  indignant  with  him 
that  he  did  not  reform.  I  say  it  would  have  been  easier 
for  him  to  find  his  way  alone  up  the  Matterhorn  in  the 
dark  than  to  reform — after  his  marriage. 

"There  had  been  hope  for  him  before — there  was  none 
afterwards.  A  pretty  inducement  to  reform,  she  offered 
him !  I  knew  that  woman  through  and  through,  and  I  tell 
you  that  there  never  lived  a  more  selfish,  feeble,  vain,  and 
miserable  thing.  All  was  self — self — self.  When  she  was 
mated  to  a  man  who  never  did  think  of  self — whose  one 
joy  was  to  be  giving,  whose  generosity  was  no  less  a  by- 
word than  his  recklessness,  who  was  delighted  if  she  ex- 
pressed a  wish,  and  would  move  heaven  and  earth  to 
gratify  it ;  the  more  eagerly  the  more  unreasonable  it  was 
— mes  amis,  I  think  it  is  easy  to  guess  the  end — the  end 
was  ruin.  I  watched  it  coming  on,  and  I  thought  of  you, 
Frau  Grafin.  Vittoria  was  expecting  her  confinement  in 
the  course  of  a  few  months.  I  never  heard  her  express  a 
hope  as  to  the  coming  child,  never  a  word  of  joy,  never  a 
thought  as  to  the  wider  cares  which  a  short  time  would 
bring  to  her.  She  did  say  often,  with  a  sigh,  that  women 
with  young  children  were  so  tied :  they  could  not  do  this, 
and  they  could  not  do  that.  She  was  in  great  excitement 
when  she  was  invited  to  come  here:  in  great  triumph 
when  she  returned. 

"  Eugen,  she  said,  was  a  fool  not  to  conciliate  his 
brother  and  that  doting  old  saint  (her  words,  gnadige  Fran, 
not  mine)  more  than  he  did.  It  was  evident  that  they 
would  do  anything  for  him  if  he  only  flattered  them,  but 
he  was  so  insanely  downright — she  called  it  stupid,  she 
said.  The  idea  of  missing  such  advantages  when  a  few 
words  of  common  politeness  would  have  secured  them. 
1  may  add  that  what  she  called  'common  politeness'  was 
just  the  same  thing  that  I  called  smooth  hypocrisy. 

"Very  shortly  after  this  her  child  was  born.  I  did  not 
see  her  then.  Her  husband  lost  all  his  money  on  a  race, 
and  came  to  smash,  as  you  English  say.  She  wrote  to 


412 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


me.  She  was  in  absolute  need  of  money,  she  said ;  Eu- 
gen  had  not  been  able  to  give  her  any.  He  had  said 
they  must  retrench.  Retrench!  was  that  what  she  mar- 
ried him  for  ?  There  was  a  set  of  turquoises  that  she 
must  have,  or  another  woman  would  get  them,  and  then 
she  would  die.  And  her  milliner,  a  most  unreasonable 
woman,  had  sent  word  that  she  must  be  paid. 

"  So  she  was  grumbling  in  a  letter  which  I  received 
one  afternoon,  and  the  next  I  was  frightfully  startled  to 
see  her  herself.  She  came  in,  and  said  smilingly  that  she 
was  going  to  ask  a  favor  of  me.  Would  I  take  her  cab 
on  to  the  bank  and  get  a  check  cashed  for  her  ?  She 
did  not  want  to  go  there  herself.  And  then  she  explained 
how  her  brother-in-law  had  given  her  a  check  for  a 
thousand  dialers — was  it  not  kind  of  him  ?  It  really  did 
not  enter  my  head  at  the  moment  to  think  there  was  any- 
thing wrong  about  the  check.  She  had  indorsed  it,  and 
I  took  it,  received  the  money  for  it,  and  brought  it  to  her. 
She  trembled  so  as  she  took  it,  and  was  so  remarkably 
quiet  about  it,  that  it  suddenly  flashed  upon  my  mind  that 
there  must  be  something  not  as  it  ought  to  be  about  it. 

"  I  asked  her  a  question  or  two,  and  she  said,  deliber- 
ately contradicting  herself,  that  the  Herr  Graf  had  not 
given  it  to  her,  but  to  her  husband,  and  then  she  went 
away,  and  I  was  sure  I  should  hear  more  about  it.  I  did. 
She  wrote  to  me  in  the  course  of  a  few  days,  saying  she 
wished  she  were  dead,  since  Eugen,  by  his  wickedness, 
had  destroyed  every  chance  of  happiness;  she  might  as 
well  be  a  widow.  She  sent  me  a  package  of  letters — my 
letters — and  asked  me  to  keep  them,  together  with  some 
other  things,  an  old  desk  amongst  the  rest.  She  had  no 
means  of  destroying  them  all,  and  she  did  not  choose  to 
carry  them  to  Rothenfels,  whither  she  was  going,  to  be 
buried  alive  with  those  awful  people. 

"  I  accepted  the  charge.  For  five — no,  six  years,  the 
desk,  the  papers,  everything  lay  with  some  other  posses- 
sions of  mine  which  I  could  not  carry  about  with  me  on 
the  wandering  life  I  led  after  my  father's  death — stored  in 
an  old  trunk  in  the  lumber-room  of  a  cousin's  house.  I 
visited  that  house  last  week. 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


413 


"Certain  circumstances  which  have  occurred  of  late 
years  induced  me  to  look  over  those  papers.  I  burned 
the  old  bundle  of  letters  from  myself  to  her,  and  then  I 
looked  through  the  desk.  In  a  pigeon-hole  I  found 
these." 

She  handed  some  pieces  of  paper  to  Graf  Bruno,  who 
looked  at  therm  I,  too,  have  seen  them  since.  They 
bore  the  imitations  of  different  signatures  :  her  husband's, 
Graf  Bruno's,  that  of  Anna  Sartorius,  and  others  which  I 
did  not  know. 

The  same  conviction  as  that  which  had  struck  Anna 
flashed  into  the  eyes  of  Graf  von  Rothenfels. 

"I  found  those,"  repeated  Anna,  "and  I  knew  in  a 
second  who  was  the  culprit.  He,  your  brother,  is  no 
criminal.  She  forged  the  signature  of  the  Herr  Graf — " 

"  Who  forged  the  signature  of  the  Herr  Graf  ?  "  asked 
a  voice  which  caused  me  to  start  up,  which  brought  all 
our  eyes  from  Anna's  face,  upon  which  they  had  been 
fastened,  and  showed  us  Eugen  standing  in  the  doorway, 
with  compressed  lips  and  eyes  that  looked  from  one  to 
the  other  of  us  anxiously. 

"Your  wife,"  said  Anna,  calmly.  And  before  any  one 
could  speak  she  went  on  :  "I  have  helped  to  circulate  the 
lie  about  you,  Herr  Graf" — she  spoke  to  Eugen — "for  I 
disliked  you;  I  disliked  your  family,  and  I  disliked,  or 
rather  wished  to  punish,  Miss  Wedderburn  for  her  be- 
havior to  me.  But  I  firmly  believed  the  story  I  circu- 
lated. The  moment  I  knew  the  truth  I  determined  to 
set  you  right.  Perhaps  I  was  pleased  to  be  able  to  cir- 
cumvent your  plans.  I  considered  that  if  I  told  the  truth 
to  Friedhelm  Helfen  he  would  be  as  silent  as  yourself, 
because  you  chose  to  be  silent.  The  same  with  May 
Wedderburn,  therefore  I  decided  to  come  to  head-quarters 
at  once.  It  is  useless  for  you  to  try  to  appear  guilty  any 
longer,"  she  added,  mockingly.  "You  can  tell  them  all 
the  rest,  and  I  will  wish  you  good-afternoon." 

She  was  gone.  From  that  day  to  this  I  have  never 
seen  her  nor  heard  of  her  again.  Probably  with  her 
power  over  us  her  interest  in  us  ceased. 

Meanwhile  I  had  released  myself  from  the  spell  which 


414 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


held  me,  and  gone  to  the  Countess.  Something  very  like 
fear  held  me  from  approaching  Eugen. 

Count  Bruno  had  gone  to  his  brother,  and  touched  his 
shoulder.  Eugen  looked  up.  Their  eyes  met.  It  just 
flashed  into  my  mind  that  after  six  years  of  separation  the 
first  words  were — must  be — words  of  reconciliation,  of 
forgiveness  asked  on  the  one  side,  eagerly  extended  on 
the  other. 

"  Eugen  ! "  in  a  trembling  voice,  and  then,  with  a  posi- 
tive sob,  "canst  thou  forgive?" 

"My  brother — I  have  not  resented.  I  could  not. 
Honor  in  thee,  as  honor  in  me — " 

"  But  that  thou  wert  doubted,  hated,  mistak — " 

But  another  had  asserted  herself.  The  Countess  had 
come  to  herself  again,  and  going  up  to  him,  looked  him 
full  in  the  face  and  kissed  him. 

"  Now  I  can  die  happy !  What  folly,  Eugen !  and 
folly  like  none  but  thine.  I  might  have  known — " 

A  faint  smile  crossed  his  lips.  For  all  the  triumphant 
vindication,  he  looked  very  pallid. 

"  I  have  often  wondered,  Hildegarde,  how  so  proud  a 
woman  as  you  could  so  soon  accept  the  worthlessness  of 
a  pupil  on  whom  she  had  spent  such  pains  as  you  upon 
me.  I  learned  my  best  notions  of  honor  and  chivalry 
from  you.  You  might  have  credited  me  rather  with  try- 
ing to  carry  the  lesson  out  than  with  plucking  it  away 
and  casting  it  from  me  at  the  first  opportunity." 

"You  have  much  to  forgive,"  said  she. 

"  Eugen,  you  came  to  see  me  on  business,"  said  his 
brother. 

Eugen  turned  to  me.  I  turned  hot  and  then  cold. 
This  was  a  terrible  ordeal  indeed.  He  seemed  metamor- 
phosed into  an  exceedingly  grand  personage  as  he  came 
to  me,  took  my  hand,  and  said,  very  proudly  and  very 
gravely : 

"The  first  part  of  my  business  related  to  Sigmund.  It 
will  not  need  to  be  discussed  now.  The  rest  was  to  tell 
you  that  this  young  lady — in  spite  of  having  heard  all 
that  could  be  said  against  me — was  still  not  afraid  to 
assert  her  intention  to  honor  me  by  becoming  my  wife 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


415 


and  sharing  my  fate.  Now  that  she  has  learned  the 
truth — May,  do  you  still  care  for  me  enough  to  marry 
me?" 

"  If  so,"  interrupted  his  brother,  before  I  could  speak, 
"let  me  add  my  petition  and  that  of  my  wife — do  you^ 
allow  me,  Hildegarde?"  « 

"  Indeed  yes,  yes  ! " 

"That  she  will  honor  us  and  make  us  happy  by  enter- 
ing our  family,  which  can  only  gain  by  the  acquisition  of 
such  beauty  and  excellence." 

The  idea  of  being  entreated  by  Graf  Bruno  to  marry 
his  brother  almost  overpowered  me.  I  looked  at  Eugen 
and  stammered  out  something  inaudible,  confused,  too, 
by  the  look  he  gave  me. 

He  was  changed ;  he  was  more  formidable  now  than 
before,  and  he  led  me  silently  up  to  his  brother  without  a 
word,  upon  which  Count  Bruno  crowned  my  confusion 
by  uttering  some  more  very  Grandisonian  words  and 
gravely  saluting  my  cheek.  That  was  certainly  a  terrible 
moment,  but  from  that  day  to  this  I  have  loved  better 
and  better  my  haughty  brother-in-law. 

Half  in  consideration  for  me,  I  believe,  the  Countess 
began : 

"But  I  want  to  know,  Eugen,  about  this.  I  don't 
quite  understand  yet  how  you  managed  to  shift  the 
blame  upon  yourself." 

"  Perhaps  he  does  not  want  to  tell,"  said  I,  hastily. 

"Yes;  since  the  truth  is  known,  I  may  tell  the  rest," 
said  he.  "  It  was  a  very  simple  matter.  After  all  was 
lost,  my  only  ray  of  comfort  was  that  I  could  pay  my 
debts  by  selling  everything,  and  throwing  up  my  commis- 
sion. But  when  I  thought  of  my  wife  I  felt  a  devil.  I 
suppose  that  is  the  feeling  which  the  devils  do  experience 
in  place  of  love — at  least  Heine  says  so: 

" '  Die  Teufel  nennen  es  Hollenqual, 
Die  Menschen  nennen  es  Liebe.' 

"  I  kept  it  from  her  as  long  as  I  could.  It  was  a  week 
after  Sigmund  was  born  that  at  last  one  day  I  had  to  tell 
her.  I  actually  looked  to  her  for  advice,  help.  It  was 


4I6  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

tolerably  presumptuous  in  me,  I  must  say,  after  what  I 
had  brought  her  to.  She  brought  me  to  reason.  May 
heaven  preserve  men  from  needing  such  lessons!  She 
reproached  me — ay,  she  did  reproach  me.  I  thank  my 
good  genius,  or  whatever  it  is  that  looks  after  us,  that  I 
could  set  my  teeth  and  not  answer  her  a  syllable." 

"  The  minx  ! "  said  the  Countess  aside  to  me.  "  I  would 
have  shaken  her." 

"'What  was  she  to  do  without  a  groscheti?'  she  con- 
cluded, and  I  could  only  say  that  I  had  had  thoughts  of 
dropping  my  military  career  and  taking  to  music  in  good 
earnest.  I  had  never  been  able  to  neglect  it,  even  in  my 
worst  time,  for  it  was  a  passion  with  me.  She  said : 

"'A  composer — a  beggar!'     That  was  hard. 

"  I  asked  her,  '  Will  you  not  help  me  ? ' 

" '  Never,  to  degrade  yourself  in  that  manner,'  she  as- 
sured me. 

"  Considering  that  I  had  deserved  my  punishment,  I 
left  her.  I  sat  up  all  night,  I  remember,  thinking  over 
what  I  had  brought  her  to,  and  wondering  what  I  could 
do  for  her.  I  wondered  if  you,  Bruno,  would  help  her 
and  let  me  go  away  and  work  out  my  punishment,  for, 
believe  me,  I  never  thought  of  shirking  it.  I  had  been 
most  effectually  brought  to  reason,  and  your  example,  and 
yours,  Hildegarde,  had  taught  me  a  different  kind  of 
moral  fibre  to  that. 

"  I  brought  your  note  about  the  check  to  Vittoria,  and 
asked  her  if  she  knew  anything  about  it.  She  looked  at 
me,  and  in  that  instant  I  knew  the  truth.  She  did  not 
once  attempt  to  deny  it.  I  do  not  know  what,  in  my 
horrible  despair  and  shame,  I  may  have  said  or  done. 

"  I  was  brought  to  my  senses  by  seeing  her  cowering 
before  me,  with  her  hands  before  her  face,  and  begging 
me  not  to  kill  her.  I  felt  what  a  brute  I  must  have  been, 
but  that  kind  of  brutality  has  been  knocked  out  of  me 
long  ago.  I  raised  her,  and  asked  her  to  forgive  me,  and 
bade  her  keep  silence  and  see  no  one,  and  I  would  see 
that  she  did  not  suffer  for  it. 

"  Everything  seemed  to  stand  clearly  before  me.  If  I 
had  kept  straight,  the  poor  ignorant  thing  would  never 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


417 


have  been  tempted  to  such  a  thing.  I  settled  my  whole 
course  in  half  an  hour,  and  have  never  departed  from  it 
since. 

"  I  wrote  that  letter  to  you,  and  went  and  read  it  to  my 
wife.  I  told  her  that  I  could  never  forgive  myself  for 
having  caused  her  such  unhappiness,  and  that  I  was  go- 
ing to  release  her  from  me.  I  only  dropped  a  vague  hint 
about  the  boy  at  first ;  I  was  stooping  over  his  crib  to  say 
good-bye  to  him.  She  said, '  What  am  /  to  do  with  him  ? ' 
I  caught  at  the  idea,  and  she  easily  let  me  take  him.  I 
asked  Hugo  von  Meilingen  to  settle  affairs  for  me,  and 
left  that  night.  Thanks  to  you,  Bruno,  the  story  never 
got  abroad.  The  rest  you  know." 

"  What  did  you  tell  Hugo  von  Meilingen  ?  " 

"  Only  that  I  had  made  a  mess  of  everything  and 
broken  my  wife's  heart,  which  he  did  not  seem  to  believe. 
He  was  staunch.  He  settled  up  everything.  Some 
day  I  will  thank  him  for  it.  For  two  years  I  traveled 
about  a  good  deal.  Sigmund  has  been  more  a  citizen  of 
the  world  than  he  knows.  I  had  so  much  facility  of  exe- 
cution— " 

"  So  much  genius,  you  mean,"  I  interposed. 

"That  I  never  had  any  difficulty  in  getting  an  engage- 
ment. I  saw  a  wonderful  amount  of  life  of  a  certain  kind, 
and  learned  most  thoroughly  to  despise  my  own  past,  and 
to  entertain  a  thorough  contempt  for  those  who  are  still 
leading  such  lives.  I  have  learned  German  history  in 
my  banishment.  I  have  lived  with  our  true  heroes — the 
lower  middle-classes." 

"  Well,  well !  You  were  always  a  radical,  Eugen,"  said 
the  Count,  indulgently. 

"  At  last,  at  Koln  I  obtained  the  situation  of  first  violin- 
ist in  the  Elberthal  Kapelle,  and  I  went  over  there  one 
wet  October  afternoon,  and  saw  the  director,  Von  Fran- 
cius.  He  was  busy,  and  referred  me  to  the  man  who 
was  next  below  me,  Friedhelm  Helfen." 

Eugen  paused,  and  choked  down  some  little  emotion 
ere  he  added : 

"  You  must  know  him.  I  trust  to  have  his  friendship 
till  death  separate  us.  He  is  a  nobleman  of  nature's 
27 


4I8  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

most  careful  making — a  knight  sans  peur  et  sans  reproche. 
When  Sigmund  came  here  it  was  he  who  saved  me  from 
doing  something  desperate  or  driveling — there  is  not  much 
of  a  step  between  the  two.  Fraulein  Sartorius,  who  seems 
to  have  a  peculiar  disposition,  took  it  into  her  head  to 
confront  me  with  a  charge  of  my  guilt  at  a  public  place. 
Friedhelm  never  wavered,  despite  my  shame  and  my  in- 
ability to  deny  the  charge." 

"  Oh  dear,  how  beautiful !  "  said  the  Countess,  in  tears. 
"We  must  have  him  over  here  and  see  a  great  deal  of 
mm." 

"We  must  certainly  know  him,  and  that  soon,"  said 
Count  Bruno. 

At  this  juncture  I,  from  mingled  motives,  stole  from,  the 
room,  and  found  my  way  to  Sigmund's  bedside,  where 
also  joy  awaited  me.  The  stupor  and  the  restlessness  had 
alike  vanished :  he  was  in  a  deep  sleep.  I  knelt  down  by 
the  bedside  and  remained  there  long. 

Nothing,  then,  was  to  be  as  I  had  planned  it.  There 
would  be  no  poverty,  no  shame  to  contend  against — no 
struggle  to  make,  except  the  struggle  up  to  the  standard 
— so  fearfully  severe  and  unapproachable,  set  up  by  my 
own  husband.  Set  up  and  acted  upon  by  him.  How 
could  I  ever  attain  it  or  anything  near  it  ?  Should  I  not 
be  constantly  shocking  him  by  coarse,  gross  notions  as  to 
the  needlessness  of  this  or  that  fine  point  of  conduct?  by 
my  ill-defined  ideas  as  to  a  code  of  honor — my  slovenly 
ways  of  looking  at  questions  ? 

It  was  such  a  fearful  height,  this  to  which  he  had  car- 
ried his  notions  and  behavior  in  the  matter  of  chivalry 
and  loyalty.  How  was  I  ever  to  help  him  to  carry  it  out, 
and,  moreover,  to  bring  up  this  child  before  me,  and  per- 
haps children  of  my  own  in  the  same  rules  ? 

It  was  no  doubt  a  much  more  brilliant  destiny  which 
actually  awaited  me,  than  any  which  I  had  anticipated — 
the  wife  of  a  nobleman,  with  the  traditions  of  a  long  line 
of  noblemen  and  noblewomen  to  support,  and  a  husband 
with  the  most  impossible  ideas  upon  the  subject. 

I  felt  afraid.  I  thought  of  that  poor,  vain,  selfish  first 
wife,  and  I  wondered  if  ever  the  time  might  come  when 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


419 


I  might  fall  in  his  eyes  as  she  had  fallen,  for  scrupulous 
though  he  was  to  cast  no  reproach  upon  her,  I  felt  keenly 
that  he  despised  her,  that  had  she  lived  after  that  dread- 
ful discovery  he  would  never  have  loved  her  again.  It 
was  awful  to  think  of.  True,  I  should  never  commit 
forgery;  but  I  might,  without  knowing  it,  fail  in  some 
other  way,  and  then — woe  to  me ! 

Thus  dismally  cogitating  I  was  roused  by  a  touch  on 
my  shoulder  and  a  kiss  on  the  top  of  my  head.  Eugen 
was  leaning  over  me,  laughing. 

"  You  have  been  saying  your  prayers  so  long  that  I  was 
sure  you  must  be  asking  too  much." 

I  confided  some  of  my  doubts  and  fears  to  him,  for 
with  his  actual  presence  that  dreadful  height  of  morality 
seemed  to  dwindle  down.  He  was  human  too — quick, 
impulsive,  a  very  mortal.  And  he  said  : 

"I  would  ask  thee  one  thing,  May.  Thou  dost  not 
seem  to  see  what  makes  all  the  difference.  I  loved  Vit- 
toria :  I  longed  to  make  some  sacrifice  for  her,  would  she 
but  have  met  me.  But  she  could  not :  poor  girl !  She 
did  not  love  me." 

"Well?" 

"  Well !     Mein  Engel — you  do,"  said  he,  laughing. 

"Oh,  I  see!"  said  I,  feeling  myself  blushing  violently. 
Yes,  it  was  true.  Our  union  should  be  different  from  that 
former  one.  After  all  it  was  pleasant  to  find  that  the 
high  tragedy  which  we  had  so  wisely  planned  for  our- 
selves had  made  a  faux  pas  and  come  ignominiously  to 
ground. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

"  And  surely,  when  all  this  is  past 
They  shall  not  want  their  rest  at  last. " 

ON  the  23d  of  December — I  will  not  say  how  few  or 
how  many  years  after  those  doings  and  that  violent 
agitation  which  my  friend  Grafin  May  has  striven  to  make 
coherent  in  the  last  chapter — I,  with  my  greatcoat  on  my 
arm,  stood  waiting  for  the  train  which  was  to  bear  me  ten 
miles  away  from  the  sleepy  old  musical  ducal  Hauptstadt, 
in  which  I  am  Herzoglicher  Kapellmeister,  to  Rothenfels, 
where  I  was  bidden  to  spend  Christmas.  I  had  not  long 
to  wait.  Having  ascertained  that  my  bag  was  safe,  in 
which  reposed  divers  humble  proofs  of  my  affection  for 
the  friends  of  the  past,  I  looked  leisurely  out  as  the  train 
came  in  for  a  second-class  carriage,  and  very  soon  found 
what  I  wanted.  I  shook  hands  with  an  acquaintance, 
and  leaned  out  of  the  window,  talking  to  him  till  the 
train  started.  Then  for  the  first  time  I  began  to  look  at 
my  fellow-traveler;  a  lady,  and  most  distinctly  not  one 
of  my  own  countrywomen,  who,  whatever  else  they  may 
excel  in,  emphatically  do  not  know  how  to  clothe  them- 
selves for  traveling.  Her  veil  was  down,  but  her  face 
was  turned  towards  me,  and  I  thought  I  knew  something 
of  the  grand  sweep  of  the  splendid  shoulders,  and  majestic 
bearing  of  the  stately  form.  She  soon  raised  her  veil, 
and  looking  at  me  said,  with  a  grave  bow : 

"  Herr  Helfen,  how  do  you  do  ?  " 

"Ah,  pardon  me,  gnadige  Frau  ;  for  the  moment  I  did 
not  recognize  you.     I  hope  you  are  well." 
420 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


421 


"  Quite  well,  thank  you,"  said  she,  with  grave  courtesy ; 
but  I  saw  that  her  beautiful  face  was  thin  and  worn,  her 
pallor  greater  than  ever. 

She  had  never  been  a  person  much  given  to  mirthful- 
ness  ;  but  now  she  looked  as  if  all  smiles  had  passed  for- 
ever from  her  lips — a  certain  secret  sat  upon  them,  and 
closed  them  in  an  outline,  sweet,  but  utterly  impenetrable. 

"  You  are  going  to  Rothenfels,  I  presume  ?  "  she  said. 

"  Yes.     And  you  also  ?  " 

"I  also — somewhat  against  my  will;  but  I  did  not 
want  to  hurt  my  sister's  feelings.  It  is  the  first  time  I 
have  left  home  since  my  husband's  death." 

I  bowed.  Her  face  did  not  alter.  Calm,  sad,  and 
staid — whatever  storms  had  once  shaken  that  proud  heart, 
they  were  lulled  forever  now. 

Two  years  ago  Adelaide  von  Francius  had  buried  keen 
grief  and  sharp  anguish,  together  with  vivid  hope  or  great 
joy,  with  her  noble  husband,  whom  we  had  mourned  bit- 
terly then,  whom  we  yet  mourn  in  our  hearts,  and  whom 
we  shall  continue  to  mourn  as  long  as  we  live. 

May's  passionate  conviction  that  he  and  she  should 
meet  again  had  been  fulfilled.  They  had  met,  and  each 
had  found  the  other  unchanged ;  and  Adelaide  had  begun 
to  yield  to  the  conviction  that  her  sister's  love  was  love, 
pure  and  simple,  and  not  pity.  Since  his  death  she  had 
continued  to  live  in  the  town  in  which  their  married  life 
had  been  passed — a  life  which  for  her  was  just  beginning 
to  be  happy — that  is  to  say,  she  was  just  learning  to  allow 
herself  to  be  happy,  in  the  firm  assurance  of  his  unaltera- 
ble love  and  devotion,  when  the  summons  came :  a  sharp 
attaclf,  a  short  illness,  all  over — eyes  closed,  lips  too, 
silent  before  her  for  evermore. 

It  has  often  been  my  fate  to  hear  criticisms  both  on 
Von  Francius  and  his  wife,  and  upon  their  conduct.  This 
I  know,  that  she  never  forgave  herself  the  step  she  had 
taken  in  her  despair.  Her  pride  never  recovered  from 
the  burden  laid  upon  it — that  she  had  taken  the  initiative, 
had  followed  the  man  who  had  said  farewell  to  her.  Bad 
her  lot  was  to  be,  sad,  and  joyless,  whether  in  its  gilded 
cage,  or  linked  with  the  man  whom  she  loved,  but  to  be 


422 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


with  whom  she  had  had  to  pay  so  terrible  a  price.  I 
have  never  heard  her  complain  of  life  and  the  world  ;  yet 
she  can  find  neither  very  sweet,  for  she  is  an  extremely 
proud  woman,  who  has  made  two  terrible  failures  in  her 
affairs. 

Von  Francius,  before  he  died,  had  made  a  mark  not  to 
be  erased  in  the  hearts  of  his  musical  compatriots.  Had 
he  lived — but  that  is  vain !  Still,  one  feels — one  cannot 
but  feel — that,  as  his  widow  said  to  me,  with  matter-of- 
fact  composure : 

"  He  was  much  more  hardly  to  be  spared  than  such 
a  person  as  I,  Herr  Helfen.  If  I  might  have  died  and 
left  him  to  enrich  and  gladden  the  world,  I  should  have 
felt  that  I  had  not  made  such  a  mess  of  everything  after 
all." 

Yet  she  never  referred  to  him  as  "  my  poor  husband," 
or  by  any  of  those  softening  terms  by  which  some  people 
approach  the  name  of  a  dead  dear  one ;  all  the  same  we 
knew  quite  well  that  with  him  life  had  died  for  her. 

Since  his  death,  she  and  I  had  been  in  frequent  com- 
munication ;  she  was  editing  a  new  edition  of  his  works, 
for  which,  after  his  death,  there  had  been  an  instant  call. 
It  had  lately  been  completed;  and  the  music  of  our  for- 
mer friend  shall,  if  I  mistake  not,  become,  in  the  best  and 
highest  sense  of  the  word,  popular  music — the  people's 
music.  I  had  been  her  eager  and,  she  was  pleased  to 
say,  able  assistant  in  the  work. 

We  journeyed  on  together  through  the  winter  country, 
and  I  glanced  at  her  now  and  then — at  the  still  pale  face 
which  rose  above  her  English-fashioned  seal-skin,  and 
wondered  how  it  was  that  some  faces,  though  never  so 
young  and  beautiful,  have  written  upon  them  in  unmistak- 
able characters,  "The  End,"  as  one  saw  upon  her  fac*3. 
Still,  we  talked  about  all  kinds  of  matters — musical,  pri- 
vate, and  public.  I  asked  if  she  went  out  at  all. 

"  Only  to  concerts  with  the  Von s,  who  have  been 

friends  of  mine  ever  since  I  went  to ,"  she  replied; 

and  then  the  train  rolled  into  the  station  of  Lahnburg. 

There  was  a  group  of  faces  I  knew  waiting  to  meet  us. 

"  Ah !  there  is  my  sister  Stella,"  said  Adelaide  in  a  low 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


423 


voice.  "How  she  is  altered!  And  that  is  May's  hus- 
band, I  suppose.  I  remember  his  face  now  that  I  see  it." 

We  had  been  caught  sight  of.  Four  people  came 
crowding  round  us.  Eugen — my  eyes  fell  upon  him  first 
— we  grasped  hands  silently.  His  wife,  looking  lovelier 
than  ever  in  her  winter  furs  and  feathers.  A  tall  boy  in  a 
seal-skin  cap — my  Sigmund — who  had  been  hanging  on 
his  father's  arm,  and  whose  eyes  welcomed  me  more  vol- 
ubly than  his  tongue,  which  was  never  given  to  excessive 
wagging. 

May  and  Frau  von  Francius  went  home  in  a  carriage 
which  Sigmund,  under  the  direction  of  an  awful-looking 
Kutscher,  drove. 

Stella,  Eugen,  and  I  walked  to  Rothenfels,  and  they 
quarreled,  as  they  always  did,  while  I  listened  and  gave 
an  encouraging  word  to  each  in  turn.  Stella  Wedderburn 
was  very  beautiful;  and  after  spending  Christmas  at 
Rothenfels,  she  was  going  home  to  be  married.  Eugen, 
May,  and  Sigmund  were  going  too,  for  the  first  time  since 
May's  marriage. 

Graf  Bruno  that  year  had  temporarily  abdicated  his 
throne,  and  Eugen  had  been  constituted  host  for  the  sea- 
son. The  guests  were  his  and  his  wife's;  the  arrange- 
ments were  his,  and  the  entertainment  fell  to  his  share. 

Grafin  Hildegarde  looked  a  little  amazed  at  such  of 
her  guests,  for  instance,  as  Karl  Linders.  She  had  got 
over  the  first  shock  of  seeing  me  a  regular  visitor  in  the 
house,  and  was  pleased  to  draw  me  aside  on  this  occasion 
and  inform  me  that  really  that  young  man,  Herr  Linders, 
was  presentable — quite  presentable — and  never  forgot 
himself;  he  had  handed  her  into  her  carriage  yesterday, 
really  quite  creditably.  No  doubt  it  was  long  friendship 
with  Eugen  which  had  given  him  that  extra  polish. 

"  Indeed,  Frau  Grafin,  he  was  always  like  that.  It  is 
natural." 

"  He  is  very  presentable,  really — very.  But  as  a  friend 
of  Eugen's,"  and  she  smiled  condescendingly  upon  me, 
"he  would  naturally  be  so." 

In  truth,  Karl  was  Karl.  "Time  had  not  thinned  his 
flowing  locks;"  he  was  as  handsome,  as  impulsive,  and 


424 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


as  true  as  ever;  had  added  two  babies  to  his  responsibili- 
ties, who,  with  his  beloved  Frau  Gemahlin,  had  likewise 
been  bidden  to  this  festivity,  but  had  declined  to  quit  the 
stove  and  private  Christmas-tree  of  home  life.  He  wore 
no  more  short  jackets  now ;  his  sister  Gretchen  was  en- 
gaged to  a  young  doctor,  and  Karl's  head  was  growing 
higher — as  it  deserved — for  it  had  no  mean  or  shady 
deeds  to  bow  it. 

The  company  then  consisted  in  toto  of  Graf  and  Grafm 
von  Rothenfels,  who,  I  must  record  it,  both  looked  full 
ten  years  younger  and  better  since  their  prodigal  was  re- 
turned to  them,  of  Stella  Wedderburn,  Frau  von  Francius, 
Karl  Linders,  and  Friedhelm  Helfen.  May,  as  I  said, 
looked  lovelier  than  ever.  It  was  easy  to  see  that  she 
was  the  darling  of  the  elder  brother  and  his  wife.  She 
was  a  radiant,  bright  creature,  yet  her  deepest  affections 
were  given  to  sad  people — to  her  husband,  to  her  sister 
Adelaide,  to  Countess  Hildegarde. 

She  and  Eugen  are  well  mated.  It  is  true  he  is  not  a 
very  cheerful  man — his  face  is  melancholy.  In  his  eyes 
is  a  shadow  which  never  wholly  disappears — lines  upon 
his  broad  and  tranquil  brow  which  are  indelible.  He  has 
honor  and  titles,  and  a  name  clean  and  high  before  men, 
but  it  was  not  always  so.  That  terrible  bringing  to  rea- 
son— that  six  years'  grinding  lesson  of  suffering,  self- 
suppression — ay,  self-effacement — have  left  their  marks,  a 
"shadow  plain  to  see,"  and  will  never  leave  him.  He  is 
a  different  man  from  the  outcast  who  stepped  forth  into 
the  night  with  a  weird  upon  him,  nor  ever  looked  back 
till  it  was  dreed  out  in  darkness  to  its  utmost  term. 

He  has  tasted  of  the  sorrows — the  self-brought  sorrows 
which  make  merry  men  into  sober  ones,  the  sorrows 
which  test  a  man  and  prove  his  character  to  be  of  gold  or 
of  dross,  and  therefore  he  is  grave.  Grave  too  is  the  son, 
who  is  more  worshiped  by  both  him  and  his  wife  than 
any  of  their  other  children.  Sigmund  von  Rothenfels  is 
what  outsiders  call  "  a  strange,  incomprehensible  child ; " 
seldom  smiles,  and  has  no  child  friends.  His  friends  are 
his  father  and  "  Mother  May  " — Muttcrchen  he  calls  her ; 
and  it  is  quaint  sometimes  to  see  how  on  an  equality  the 


THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 


425 


three  meet  and  associate.  His  notions  of  what  is  fit  for 
a  man  to  be  and  do  he  takes  from  his  father ;  his  ideal 
woman — I  am  sure  he  has  one — would,  I  believe,  turn 
out  to  be  a  subtle  and  impossible  compound  of  May  and 
his  Aunt  Hildegarde. 

We  sometimes  speculate  as  to  what  he  will  turn  out. 
Perhaps  the  musical  genius  which  his  father  will  not  bring 
before  the  world  in  himself,  may  one  day  astonish  that 
world  in  Sigmund.  It  is  certain  that  his  very  life  seems 
bound  up  in  the  art,  and  in  that  house  and  that  circle  it 
must  be  a  very  Caliban,  or  something  yet  lower,  which 
could  resist  the  influence. 

One  day  May,  Eugen,  Karl,  and  I,  repaired  to  the 
music-room  and  played  together  the  Fourth  Symphonic 
and  some  of  Schumann's  Kinderscenen,  but  May  began 
to  cry  before  it  was  over,  and  the  rest  of  us  had  thoughts 
that  did  lie  too  deep  for  tears — thoughts  of  that  far  back 
afternoon  of  Carnival  Monday,  and  how  we  "made  a 
sunshine  in  a  shady  place" — of  all  that  came  before — and 
after. 

Between  me  and  Eugen  there  has  never  come  a  cloud, 
nor  the  faintest  shadow  of  one.  Builded  upon  days 
passed  together  in  storm  and  sunshine,  weal  and  woe, 
good  report  and  evil  report,  our  union  stands  upon  a  firm 
foundation  of  that  nether  rock  of  friendship,  perfect  trust, 
perfect  faith,  love  stronger  than  death,  which  makes  a 
peace  in  our  hearts,  a  mighty  influence  in  our  lives  which 
very  truly  "passeth  understanding." 


THE    END. 


VOCABULARY 

OF 

GERMAN    WORDS   AND    EXPRESSIONS, 

EXCLUDING   THE   LARGER    QUOTATIONS,  WHICH  WILL  BE  FOUND 
TRANSLATED   ON   PAGES  431-2. 


Abendbrod,  Supper. 

Aber,  But. 

Aber    denken    Sie    nur !     But 

only  think  of  it ! 
Aber  ich   bilte  dich,  That   will 

do.     (Literally,  But  I  beg  of 

you.) 

Ach  Gott !  Good  God  ! 
Ach,    urn     Gotteswillen !     For 

God's  sake ! 
Ach,  was  rede  ich-  fur  dummes 

Zeug !  What  nonsense  I  am 

talking  ! 
Ade,  Good-by. 

A  lie  Wetter!    Thunder!  (Lite- 
rally, all  weather.) 
Allerliebster       kleiner      Engel, 

Dear  little  angel. 
Also  hatte  ich  doch  Recht,  Then 

I  was  right  after  all. 
Alter  Narr,  Old  fool. 
Armes    Kerlchen,    Poor     little 

fellow. 
A  tick,  Also. 
Auf    Widersehen,     Au    revoir, 

Good-by,   till    we    see   each 

other  again. 

Aus  der  Fuge,  Out  of  joint. 
Ausgang,  Exit. 
Bahnhof,  Railroad  station. 
Berg,  Mountain. 
Bewahre,  Certainly  not. 
Bitte,  Please. 

Bittendes  Kind,  Praying  child. 
Blaseinstrumente,  Wind  instru- 
ments. 


Blute  nur,  liebes  Herz.  Bleed 
then,  dear  heart. 

Baser  Geist,  Evil  spirit. 

Brodchen,  Rolls. 

Burger,  Citizen. 

Carriere,  Career. 

Christ-Kind,  Infant  Christ. 

Clarchen,  (diminutive  of)  Clara. 

Clavier,  Piano. 

Concertmeister,  Conductor  of  a 
concert. 

Conservatorium,  Conservator}'. 

Da  gehfs  schon  an,  It  is  begin- 
ning already. 

Das  heisst  Mai,  That  is  called 
May. 

Das  Made  I,  The  girl. 

Das  Weib  ist  der  Teufel,  That 
woman  is  the  devil. 

Der  Anne,  The  poor  fellow. 

Der  fliegende  Hollander,  The 
flying  Dutchman. 

Der  Geist  der  stets  verneint,  The 
spirit  that  ever  denies — Faust. 

Der  Kleine,  The  little  one. 

Der  Kleine  Bengel,  The  little 
fellow. 

Der  Mensch,  Human  being. 

Desto  besser,  So  much  the  bet- 
ter. 

Deutschland,  Germany. 

Die  Kinder  der  Welt,  The 
children  of  the  world. 

Die  Kunst,  Art. 

Dienstmddchen,  Servant  girl. 

Dilettanten,  Amateurs. 


VOCABULARY. 


427 


Die  Lo(us-l>lumc,  The  Lotus- 
flower. 

Dock,  Yes  you  have  !  (yes  you 
do  !  yes  it  is  ! — any  emphatic 
re-affirmation  of  what  has 
been  denied.) 

Donnerwetter  !  Zounds  !  (Lit- 
erally, thunder-weather.) 

Domroschen,  Sleeping  Beauty. 

Droschke,  A  sort  of  carriage. 

Du  lieber  Himmel  I  Good 
heavens !  (Literally,  thou 
dear  heaven.) 

Du  meine  Gute,  My  goodness  ! 

Du  meine  Zcit !  Gracious 
heaven  !  (Literally,  thou  my 
time.) 

Echt  Englisch,  Real  English. 

Edel,  Noble. 

Edelfrau,  A  noble  lady. 

Ei  !  Oh ! 

El  !  mein  Gott !  Oh  !  my  God ! 

Ein,  One. 

Eine  vollkommene  Kiinstlerin, 
A  perfect  (female)  artist. 

Ein  lauter  Spitzbube,  A  genu- 
.ine  rascal. 

Eisenbahnen,  Railroads. 

Elle,  Yard  (measure). 

Elsa,  ich  Hebe  Dich,  Elsa,  I 
love  thee. 

Engldnder,  Englishman. 

Engldnderin,  An  English  lady. 

Englischerweise,  The  English 
fashion. 

Entbehren  sollst  du  ;  sollst  ent- 
bcrcn  !  Thou  shalt  refrain  ; 
refrain  thou  shalt ! 

Entschuldigen,  Excuse. 

Ergo,  Therefore. 

Ermildet,  Tired  out. 

Erste  Classe,  First  class. 

Etage,  Floor. 

Excrzierplatz,  Drill-ground. 

Fest,  Festival. 

Feste  Burg,  Mighty  fortress. 

Fest  und  treu,  Firm  and  true. 

Frau,  Madame. 


Frdulein,  Miss. 

Freude,  Joy. 

Fruhling,  Spring. 

Gage,  Salary. 

Ganzer  Kerl,  Perfect  fellow. 

Ganz  ^tnd  gar,  Altogether,  en- 
tirely. 

Gar  keine,  None  at  all. 

Gauche,  Foolish. 

Genrebilder,  Genre-pictures. 

Gepdck  -  Expedition,  Baggage- 
office. 

Gescheidtes  Mddchen,  Sensible 
girl. 

Gesegnete  Mahlzeit,  Literally, 
blessed  mealtime,  a  German 
way  of  wishing  another  a 
pleasant  meal,  for  which 
there  is  no  equivalent  in 
English. 

Gnadig,  Gracious,  respected ; 
as,  Gnddiger  Herr,  gracious 
Sir,  gnddige  Frau,  gracious 
Madam  ;  a  form  always  used 
in  addressing  titled  persons. 

Gott  im  Himmel/  God  in 
heaven. 

Graf,  Count. 

Griifin,  Countess. 

Grausam,  Cruel. 

Groschen,  A  penny. 

Gute  Besserung,  Speedy  re- 
covery. 

Guten  Appetit,  Good  appetite. 

Gutcn  Morgen,  Good  morning. 

Guten  Tag,  Literally,  Good  day. 

Haupt,  Chief. 

Hauptman,  Captain. 

Haupt-probe,  General  rehearsal. 

Haiisfrcund,  Friend  of  the 
house. 

Herr  du  meine  Gute !  O  my 
good  Lord  ! 

Herein  !  Come  in. 

Herren,  Gentlemen. 

Herrgott,  Lord  God. 

Hi-rzchcn,  diminutive  of  Hcrzt 
Heart. 


428 


VOCABULARY. 


Himmlich,  Heavenly. 

Hofgarten,  Court  or  castle  gar- 
den. 

Hofoper,  Court-opera. 

Hundewetter !  Beastly  (dog's) 
weather. 

/  bewahre !  Oh,  heaven  for- 
bid! 

Ich  bin  Ich,  und  seize  mich 
selbst,  I  am  myself,and  choose 
my  own  seat. 

Ich  gratuliere,  I  congratulate 
you. 

Ich  halt'  einen  Camaraden,  I 
had  a  comrade  (a  popular 
German  song). 

In  Berlin,  sagt'er — In  Berlin, 
says  he  (German  song). 

Jiiger  Hof,  Hunting-ground. 

Ja-hier  /  (Yes),  present ! 

ya,  ich  -wache,  Yes,  I  am 
awake. 

Ja  (ivohi),  Yes. 

Jcsuiten  Kirche,  Jesuit  church. 

Jtmge,  Boy. 

Kaffee,  Coffee. 

Kapelle,  Orchestra. 

Kartoffeln  frittes,  Fried  pota- 
to. 

Kasse,  Box-office. 

Kaufleute,  Tradespeople. 

Kellner,  Waiter. 

Kindermadchen,  Child's   nurse. 

Kindersccnen,  Scenes  of  youth. 

Klatsch,  Gossip,  scandal. 

Klatscherei,  Scandal. 

Kolner  Dom,  Cologne  Cathe- 
dral. 

Kolnische  Zeitung,  Cologne  Ga- 
zette. 

KciiiglicJier  Musikdirektor,  Roy- 
al musical  director. 

Krntz  am  Wege,  The  cross  by 
the  wayside. 

Kuchen,  Cake. 

Kiinstler,  Artist. 

Kutscher,  Coachman. 

Ltmdwehr,  Militia. 


LanglvriHg,  Tedious. 

Liebe,  Love. 

Liebes  Kind,  Dear  child. 

Logen  im  ersten   Rang,  Boxes 

in  the  dress-circle. 
Made  hen,  Girl. 
Mag   Gott    es    bewahren,   May 

God  forbid. 

Maibliimchen,  May-flower. 
Maler,  Painter. 
Malkasten,     The    name    of   a 

public  resort. 
Marc  hen,  Fairy  tale. 
Maskenball,  Masked-ball. 
Mein,  My. 

Mein  Bester,  My  best  one. 
Meine  Herren,  Gentlemen. 
Meine  Herrschaften,\Jz.&\<i<a  and 

gentlemen.      (Literally,    My 

masters.) 
Meine     Hebe,   gute    Schulerin, 

My  dear,  good  pupil. 
Mein  Lieber,  My  dear. 
Mein  Licbling  !   My  darling ! 
Mein  Voter,  My  father. 
Mir  ist  's  nicht  u<ohl,  I  am  not 

well. 

Mittagessen,  Dinner. 
Morgenhaube,  Morning-cap. 
Musiker,  Musician. 
Musikfest,  Musical  festival. 
Miitterchen,  diminutive  of  Mut- 
ter, Mother. 
Na  !  Well ! 
Na  !  's  schacTt  nix,  Well !    it's 

no  matter ! 
Naturlich,  Naturally. 
Nein,  No. 

Nein,  das  ist — ,  No,  that  is — . 
Nehmen     Sie    Platz  auf  dem 

Sofa,  Be  seated  on  the  sofa. 
Nene  Anlagc,  New  accession. 
Nicht,  Not. 
Nicht   -wahr?   Have  you  not? 

Isn't   that  so?   (used   exactly 

like  the  French  n'est-ce fas.) 
yVzV,  Never. 
Niederschlagen,  Cast  down. 


VOCABULARY. 


429 


Niemand,  Nobody. 

Nie,  mein  Lieber,  Never,  my 
dear  fellow. 

Nock  ein  Paar,  Just  a  few  more. 

Nun,  Well,  now. 

Nun  denn  !  Well,  then  ! 

0  behiite  !  Heaven  forbid. 

0  bewahre  !  Oh,  no  ! 

O  bitte  sehr,  Not  at  all. 

O  dock  !  Oh,  yes  ! 

Oje  !  Oh,  Lord  ! 

Oder  so  etwas,  Or  something 
like  it. 

O,  was  I  Oh,  what ! 

Per  Quartal,  Per  quarter. 

Pietistisch,  Pietistic. 

Potz  blitz  !  Zounds  ! 

Prinz  Eugen,  der  edle  Ritter, 
Prince  Eugene,  the  noble 
knight  (the  name  of  a  Ger- 
man song). 

Probe,  Rehearsal. 

Realschule,  Polytechnic  school. 

Reizend,  hiibsch  or  nett,  Charm- 
ing, handsome,  delightful. 

Restatiradon,  Restaurant. 

Ritterlich,  Knightly. 

Saal,  Room. 

Sangerkrieg,  Singer's  tourna- 
ment. 

Schade  I  What  a  pity  ! 

Schlaj'  -wohl,  Sleep  well. 

Schon,  Beautiful. 

Schon  fort,  Fraulein,  already 
gone,  Miss. 

Sctione  A  ussicht,  Beautiful  view. 

Schone  Geschichte,  Pretty  sto- 
ry- 

Schiffbriicke ,  Bridge  of  boats. 

Schnappschen,  A  little  drink  of 
schnapps. 

Schrecklich,  Terrible. 

Schwanenspiegel,  Swan's  mir- 
ror, the  name  of  a  river. 

Schwarmen,  To  rave  about, 
grow  sentimental  over  ; 
Schwarmerei,  enthusiastic 
sentiment. 


Seine  Gemahlin,  His  wife. 

Selten,  Seldom. 

Sie,  You. 

Siefi,  Look. 

'S  is t  gitt,  It  is  well. 

'S  ist  mir  egal,  It's  all  the 
same  to  me. 

Sonderbar,  Strange. 

Sonst  geht  's  nicht,  Otherwise 
it  can't  be  done. 

Speisesaal,  Dining-room. 

Sprechen  Sie  Deutsch  ?  Do  you 
speak  German? 

Stddtische  Kapelle,  Public  or- 
chestra. 

Streichinstrumente,  Stringed 
instruments. 

Studentenhut,  Student's  cap. 

Studentenmiitzen,  Student's  caps 

Studentin,  Female  student. 

Sturmschritt,  Double  quick  step. 

Tag,  Fraulein,  (Good)  day, 
Miss. 

Taugenichts,  Good-for-nothing. 

Tattsend  undeine  Nacht,  Thou- 
sand and  One  Nights  (the 
Arabian  Nights). 

Telegraphenbureau,  Telegraph 
office. 

Theemaschine,  Tea-making  ma- 
chine. 

Thurm  zu  Babel,  Tower  of 
Babel. 

Tonhalle,  Concert  hall. 

Traumerei,  Vision,  dreaming. 

Trinken  Sie  'mal,  Take  a 
drink. 

Und  dock  bist  du — And  yet  you 
are — . 

Und  so  weiter,  And  so  on. 

Ungliick,  Accident. 

Unter  vier  Augen  Under  four 
eyes  (the  German  equivalent 
for  tete-a-tete}. 

Um   Cotteswillen !  For    God's 

sake  ! 

Vater,  Father. 
Vereine,  Clubs,  societies. 


430 


VOCABULARY. 


Verlobung,  Betrothal. 

Verlorenes  Parodies,  Paradise 
Lost. 

Verse kwunden,  Disappeared. 

Verstehst  du  ?  Do  you  under- 
stand ? 

Voglein,  diminutive  of  Vogel, 
Bird. 

Volkslieder,  Folk-songs. 

Von  der  besten  Qualitat,  Of 
the  best  quality. 

Vorname,  Christian  name. 

Waldeinsamkeit,  Solitude  of  the 
woods. 

Wanderbilder,  Pictures  of  trav- 
el. 

Wartesaal,  Waiting-room. 

Warum  nicht  ?     Why  not  ? 

Was,  What. 

Was  ist  denn  mit  dir,  mein  En- 
gel?  What  is  the  matter 
with  you,  my  angel  ? 

Was  ist  denn  mit  Him  ?  What 
ails  him  ? 

Was  Wichtiges,  Something  im- 
portant. 


Weh,  Woe. 

Weihnachten  Abend,  Christ- 
mas-eve. 

Weiss 's  nit.  Don't  know. 

Wenn  Zwei  sich  gut  sind,  Jin- 
den  sie  den  Weg,  When  two 
love  each  other,  they'll  find 
the  way. 

Wer,  Who. 

Wie  geht  's  Ihnen  ?  How  goes 
it  with  you?  How  are  you  ? 

Wie  Komisch  !  How  comical ! 

Wilder  Gesell,  Wild  fellow. 

Willkommen,  Welcome. 

Will'mal  nachsehen,  I'll  see 
about  it. 

Wirbelwind,  Whirlwind,  tor- 
nado. 

Wirthschaft,  Inn. 

Wo,  Where. 

Woilt  Ihr  nach  Elberthal, 
Friiuleinchen?  Do  you  wish 
to  go  to  Elberthal,  Miss? 

Zauberei,  Witchcraft,  magic. 

Zauberfest,  Proof  against  magic. 

Zeitvertreib,  Pastime. 


TRANSLATIONS  OF    THE   GERMAN 
QUOTATIONS. 


PAGE 

19. — Take  counsel ;  and  from  counsel  pass  to  action. 
23. — Farewell  then,  ye  mountains  !    Farewell  boyhood's  home  ! 

For  I  yearn  through  the  wide  world  beyond  ye  to  roam  ! 
26. — A  hero  from  a  stranger  land,  a  man  of  valiant  heart. 
43. — Bleed  then,  dear  heart ! 

A  child  that  thou  hast  reared  from  infancy, 
Who  from  thy  breast  drew  life  he  owed  to  thee, 
Now  turns  with  threats  to  rob  thee  of  thine  own, 

— A  very  serpent  grown  ! 
59. — Rehearsal  for  Paradise  Lost. 
65. — The  spirit  who  ever  denies. 
65  (second  passage). — Oh,  for  heaven's  sake. 
65  (third  passage). — 

With  him,  with  him  is  heaven  itself — 
Without  my  Wilhelm  all  is  hell. 
65  (fourth  passage). — 

The  angels  call  it  the  bliss  of  heaven ; 
The  devils  call  it  the  pangs  of  hell  ; 
But  men — men  call  it  only — LOVE. 
80. — The  land  whence  thy  light  boat  has  borne  me  far, 
Seek  not  again  till  guides  our  happier  star  ! 
Well  be  thy  duty  done,  thy  burthen  drawn — 
And  so  farewell — farewell,  my  faithful  swan ! 
170. — Farewell !  Farewell !  Farewell  once  more  ! 
Absence  and  parting  leave  the  heart  sore  ! 
186. — Thou,  thou  reign'st  in  this  bosom! 
1 86  (second  passage). — 

Maiden,  come  back,  come  back,  come  back, 
Back  to  my  hillside  green  ! 
211. — Thou  shalt  refrain  ;  refrain  thou  shalt. 
219. — It  is  decreed  by  God's  behest 

That  man  from  all  he  loveth  best 
Must  sever. 
245. — Resignation  !     What  a  pitiable  resource !     And  yet  it  is 

the  only  one  left  to  me  ! 
279. — Sheds  her  fragrance  and  trembles  and  weeps, 

For  love  and  the  pangs  of  loving. 
294. — This  kiss  of  the  whole  world. 


432     TRANSLATIONS  OF  GERMAN  QUOTATIONS. 

294  (second  passage). — 

Joy,  beauteous  spark  of  heavenly  flame, 
And  daughter  of  Elysium  ! 
295. — Every  living  thing  drinks  gladness 
From  the  fount  of  nature's  breast. 
321. — No  !  I  this  conflict  will  no  longer  wage, 

The  conflict  duty  claims — the  giant  task  ; — 
Thy  spells,  O  virtue,  never  can  assuage 

The  heart's  wild  fire — this  offering  do  not  ask  ! 
True,  I  have  sworn — a  solemn  vow  have  sworn, 

That  I  myself  will  curb  the  self  within  ; 
Yet  take  thy  wreath,  no  more  it  shall  be  worn — 
Take  back  thy  wreath,  and  leave  me  free  to  sin. 
327. — I  have  lived  and  loved. 
334. — Alone  !  Alone  !  Shall  this  my  pangs  abate  ? 
Alone  !  Alone  !  Is  this  the  boon  of  fate  ! 
Alone  !  Alone  !  O,  God — alone,  apart — 
Oh  but  to  lay  this  head  upon  his  heart ! 
344. — Every  living  thing  drinks  gladness 

From  the  fount  of  Nature's  breast, 
Good  and  bad  alike  must  follow 

Where  her  rosy  feet  have  pressed. 
370. — Oft  have  I  strayed,  and  again  have  found  my  way  back 

from  my  error, — 
But  never  in  happier  case. 
415. — The  devils  call  it  the  pangs  of  Hell, 
But  men — men  call  it  only — LOVE. 


H  A  KT 


^^ 

TAINE'S  THE  'fc'RENCH  REVOLUTION.  Vol.1. 
Being  the  second  volume  of  "The  Origins  of  Contemporary 
France."  Translated  l»y  JOHN  DI'KAND.  Large  12mo,  $2.50. 
TYLOR'S  RESEARCHES  INTO  THE  EARLY 
HISTORY  OF  MANKIND  AND  THE  DEVELOPMENT  OF 
CIVILIZATION.  8vo,  $:$.oO. 

MRS.  BRASSEY'S  AROUND  THE  WORLD  IN 
THE  YACHT  SUNBEAM.  With  Chart  and  Illustra- 
tions. 8vo.  $3  50. 

••  It  is  altogether  unlike  all  other  books  of  travel.    .    .    We  can  but  faintly  Indicate 
what  tl  ...  look  for  in  this  unrivaled  book.     Mr-.  Brassey  writes  delightfully 

of  men  and  cities.  and  has  :i  faculty  for  seeing  and  acquainting  herself  with  th 
lions  of  human  life  everywhere,  unsurpassed   within   our  knowledge  of  traveler^."  — 
/Miidfin  ^pect'it'ir. 

••  .MI  Vlif-htfiil  cruise  in  the  '  Sunbeam'  is  the  very  romance  of  adven- 

;vchting;  it  is  the  voyages  of  the  rough  old  c.5n.Mimnavig<itors.  translated  into 

•  ly  luxurious.     .     .     .     Wherever  they  went  —  whether  ut  the  Government 


went  botanizing  and  butterfly-hunting  in  tropical  for.  •  up  picnic  p; 

.    -  of   the  South  Seas;  they  went  shopping  everywhere;  t! 

did   a   ]  ;e  of  trade  with  naked  Patagonians,  who  i>ut  oil  in  Conors  in  the 

Strnits  of  Magellan.     .     .     .     She  tells  you  just  what  you  care  to  hear,  changing  the 
it  has  begun  to  bore  you.     She  has  quick,  artistic  perceptions,  with  a 
subdued  sense  of  humor."—  London  Times. 

SINGLE  FAMOUS  POEMS.  Edited  by  ROSSITER  JOHNSON. 

Square  12mo,  gilt  edges,  $2.00. 

The  object  of  this  book  is  to  give  a  local  habitation  to  some  famous 
poems,  existing  only  in  the  fugitive  condition  of  the  daily  and  periodi- 
cal press,  and  also  to  make  more  accessible  certain  other  poems  by 
>tiind:ird  authors  not  renowned  as  poets. 

THE    AMATEUR    SERIES. 

LEWES  (G.  H.)  ON  ACTORS  AND  THE  ART  OF 
\CTING.     12mo,  $1.50. 

'•  It  is  viiluable,  lirst,  as  the  record  of  the  impressions  produced  upon  a  n 
•'•ility  by  many  actors  of  renown,  and  lastly,  indeed  chiefly,  br 

1  reiterates  sound  opinions  upon  the  little-understood  principles  of  the 
art  of  acting.''  —  Xalion 

"iblic  who  are  interested  in  the  advancement  of  the  drama, 

,u,a  tin  public  of  theatre-goer.s  who  are  interested  in,  the  drama  merely  aa 

'•.,-uiiseinent."—  -V.    }".  Kvtniinj  I'i»it. 

THORNBURY'S    LIFE    OF    J.     M.    W.    TURNER 
I'Jiiio.     Wi  h  eight  colored  illustrations.     $2.75. 

"  It  is  n  book  which  every  one  .with  the  slightest  interest  in  art  will  read  with  eager 
interc-t.'1—  Jiontoii  Iraiisi-rifit. 

'•  It  is  a  capital  work,  and  the  best  biography  of  a  great  man  we  have  yet  had."— 
*lirimjflel<l  h'fjju'n 

CHORLEY'S  RECENT  ART  AND  SOCIETY.     12mo, 

|2.00. 

MOSCHELES'     RECENT      MUSIC      AND     MUSI- 

CIANS.    12mo,  |2.00. 
WAGNER'S       ART       LIFE       AND       THEORIES. 

Selected  from  his  writings,  and  translated  by  EDWARD  L.  BUR- 

LINOAME.     $2.00. 

J10L  '/'A  CO.,  Publishers,  25  Bond  St.,  J\\  I. 


JOHNSON'S  CHIEF  LIVES  OF  THE  POETS. 

Being  those   of  MILTON,   DRYDEN,   SWIFT, 
AND    GRAY,    AND    MAC AUL AY'S 
With  a  Preface  by  MATTHEW^AB*1^ 

Mucaulay's  and  Carlyle'sJE""'' 
Large  12mo,  $2.00.       \ 
-  The  present  volume  was  desi^  \ll|\l\lW»^ToA  A        °  -  oe  an 

™\W"r!r\(S  6»^        -  "O  with  really 

• -illative  poets,  and  thus  to  fur.  N       0»*         -•=  most  valuable  and  sig- 

nificant parts  of  Johnson's  work.     .  \  1^       _«rs  have  wisely  added  Macaulay's 

notable  reviews." — W.  1  .,,y  Post. 

•'  I  know  of  no  such  first-rate  picue  of  literature,  for  supplying  in  this  way  the 

•"'  the  literary  student,  existing  at  all  in  any  other  language;  or  existing  in  our 

own  language,  for  any  period  except  the  period  which  Johnson's  six  lives  cover.     A 

student  cannot  read  them  without  gaining  from  them,  consciously  or  unconsciously,  an 

insight  into  the  history  of  English  literature  and  life." — MATTHEW  ABNOLD. 

HANDBOOKS  for  STUDENTS  and  GENERAL  READERS, 

ZOOLOGY  OF  THE  VERTEBRATE  ^ANIMALS. 
By  ALEX.  MACA LISTER,  M.D.,  Professor  of  Zoology  and  Compara- 
tive Anatomy  in  the  University  of  Dublin.  Specially  revised  for 
America  by  A.  S.  PACKARD,  JR.,  M.D.,  Professor  of  Zoology  and 
Geology  in  Brown  University.  16mo.  60c. 

THE  STUDIO  ARTS.  By  ELIZABETH  WINTHROP  JOHNSON. 
16mo.  GOc. 

ASTRONOMY.     By   ROBERT  S.  BALL,  LL.D.,  F.R.S.,  Royal 

Astronomer  of  Ireland.    Specially  Revised  for  America  by  SIMON 

\<OMB,  LL.D.,  Superintendent  American  Nautical  Almanac ; 

formerly  Professor  at  the  U.  S.  Naval  Observatory.     16mo.    60o. 

%*  Other  volumes  will  follow  at  short  intervals. 


NESBITT'S  (M.  L.)  GRAMMAR-LAND.  Grammar- 
LauJ :  a  G  nun  mar  for  the  Children  of  Schoolroomshire.  By 
M.  L.  \I>IUTT.  With  Frontispiece  and  Initials  byM.  L.  WADDY. 

Square  Uiino.      $1'.2;>. 

ry,  with  the  parts  of  speech  for  its  personages,  with 

'ITS  into  the  acquisition  of  knowledge  while  they  fancy  that 

•  es.     The  work,  let  us  say  frankly,  i-eems  to  us  to  be  singularly 

well  done,  thu  interest  being  well  sustained  without  a  moment's  forgctfulness  of  the  more- 

";.     After  introducing  the  children  to  Grammar-Land,  tha 

:i;nmar  held  court  once  upon  a  time,  assisted  by  Dr.  Syntax 

1'arMiifr,  with  a  full  force  of   policemen,  called  Critics,  in  attendance. 

The  nine  tfrear.  Barons  of  Grammar- Land— the  parts  of  speech — having  fallen  into  quar> 

ii    their  several  possessions,  each  was  summoned  before  the 

court  n  .  is  his.  and  by  whattitie  he  held  each  of 

them.  between  Mr.  Noun  and  Mr.  Yiib,  Mr.  Adjective  and 

and  Mr.  I'ronoun  and  tliero>twen  1  in  detail,  and  jm!  iven  in 

:.'iwn  by  the  author  in  so  arranging  the  disputes  as  to 

brin    out  even  the  nicer  points  of  grammatical  construction,  and  he  is  not.  less  ingenious 
in  ii.trodiieing  hmnonm-,  epi-odes  and  playful  <  .  up  the  decep- 

;ion  that  the  whole  tiling  is  mad  play  rather  than  study.     A  clever  teacher  might  make 
book  by  introducing  some  of  its  word-games  into  the  school-room." 
— -V.  >*.  h'veiiiny  I'ost. 

CO.,  Publishers,  26  Bond  St.,  «Y.  T. 


LEISURE  HOUR  SERIES 


BY 


JESSIE  FOTHERGILL 


HENRY  HOLT&  Co.  PUBLISHE 
New  York 


